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Full text of "Radio TV Mirror (Jul-Dec 1957)"

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AUDIO-VISUAL CONSERVATION 
at The LIBRARY of CONGRESS 



Packard Campus 

for Audio Visual Conservation 

www.loc.gov/avconservation 

Motion Picture and Television Reading Room 
www.loc.gov/rr/mopic 

Recorded Sound Reference Center 
www.loc.gov/rr/record 



PUBLISHER'S BINDING 



5-DEC 11 
-X 1957 




>I0 MIRROR 



In color: 
IN DAYTIME 
ADIO GREATS 

leet Little 
itte Funicello 
isney Doll 



Y JOHNSON 
"dreamed" 
i a storm! 



RADIO 
MIRROR 



THE CROSBY CLAN OF SPOKANE 




Tommy 
Sands 



BUD COLLYER 





ROSEMARY RICE 



25a 



TOMMY SANDS AND THE DATE DEPARTMENT 




A NEW, SLENDER CONTAINER EOR THE FRAGRANT SPRAY 
THAT HOLDS HAIR SOFTLY, BEAUTIFULLY IN PLACE 

Breck Hair Set Mist, a fragrant spray, is available in an attractive new 
container. This slender package is easy to use and economical to purchase. 

Breck Hair Set Mist is gentle as nature's mist, yet its delicate touch holds your 
hair softly in place for hours. A damp comb renews your waves without respraying. 







n * 



Breck Hair Set Mist provides a quick, easy way to make lasting pin curls, too. 

Fragrant as a bouquet, Breck Hair Set Mist contains lanolin, which leaves the 
hair soft to the touch and brings out the natural lustre and beauty of your hair. 



B R 



C^BeauiiJul^lai, 

E 



C K 



Copyright 1957 by John H. Brcck.Inc. 

New 8 ounce size $1.65; 4V2 ounce $1.25; 11 ounce $2.00. Plus tax Available wherever ^osmetics are sold. 




More grown-ups and growing-ups 

depend on Mum than on any other deodorant 






PRODUCT OF BRISTOL-MYER 



New 




stops odor... without irritation 

So safe for any normal skin you can use it every day 



If you've ever worried about underarm stinging or burn- 
ing from using a deodorant daily or right after shaving 
or a hot bath— now you can set your mind at ease. 

New Mum Cream is so gentle and safe for normal skin, 
you can use it whenever you please, as often as you please. 

Mum Cream gives you the kind of protection you can't 
possibly get from any other leading deodorant— because 
it works a completely different way. 



Mum Cream is the only leading deodorant that works 
entirely by stopping odor . . . contains no astringent 
aluminum salts. And it keeps on working actively to stop 
odor 24 hours a day. When a deodorant is so effective- 
yet so safe — isn't it the ^sSoHFEbs^ /£&&!§ 




new Mum Cream today 



WON'T 

DAMAGE 

CLOTHES 



MUM® stops odor 24 hours a day with M-3 

(bacteria-destroying hexachlorophene) 




. 3£**-*~ 



keep 

cool 

Nothing to stop you from rushing head- 
long into a clear, fresh pool, a mountain 
spring, a briny surf! When it's time-of- 
the-month, you can still keep cool ! You 
can swim wearing Tampax — the internal 
sanitary protection that really protects 
while it keeps your secret safe! 

Doctor-invented Tampax® is invisible 
and unfelt when in place. You can wear 
it under the sleekest bathing suit — and 
no one will ever know! You can dive, 
swim, be a living mermaid — and Tampax 
won't absorb a drop of water! 

Any time, anywhere, Tampax is the 
coolest, nicest, most comfortable 
sanitary protection you can 
wear. No belts, pins or pads to 
chafe and bind. Nothing to 
bulge or show. Nothing to cause odor. 

Take off for a breezy beach at a mo- 
ment's notice! Say "goodbye" to "prob- 
lem days" with Tampax! It's easy to 
change . . . simple to dispose of . . . con- 
venient to carry. Why, as much as a 
whole month's supply tucks away in 
your purse! 3 absorbencies: Regular, 
Junior, Super. Wherever drug products 
are sold. Tampax Incorporated, Palmer, 
Massachusetts. 









TV 



RADIO 
MIRROR 



JULY, 1957 



MIDWEST EDITION 



VOL. 48, NO. 2 



Ann Higginbotham, Editorial Director 



Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Claire Safran, Associate Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor 



Jack Zasorin, Art Director 
Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 
Joan Clarke, Art Assistant 
Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 



PEOPLE ON THE AIR 

What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 8 

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 10 

Ahoy, My Mate! (Robert Shaw) by Jennifer Bourke Shaw 18 

Jack Imel From Indiana by Maurine Remenih 21 

The "Dolly" Princess (Annette Funicello) by Gordon Budge 30 

The Crosby Clan From Spokane by Maxine Arnold 34 

Two Weeks With Play (Paul Winchell and Jerry Mahoney) 38 

The Girl Tommy Sands Marries by Eunice Field 40 

Families Are Fun (Bud Collyer) by Mary Temple 44 

All the Things You Are (Rosemary Rice) by Frances Kish 46 

Hillbilly Hero (Andy Griffith) by Fredda Balling 50 

My 13 Years With Jerry Lewis by Patti Lewis 52 

The Rock Rolls 'Round the World (Bill Haley and His 

Comets) .by Helen Bolstad 54 

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR 

Stars in the Daytime — Your CBS Radio Favorites 24 

Faith Had the Answer (Bill Lundigan) by Dora Albert 28 

Sing and Be Happy (Betty Johnson) by Martin Cohen 32 

YOUR LOCAL STATION 

A Weekend With Monitor (NBC) 4 

Of Many Words (WBC, CBS, CBS-TV) 12 

Inside New York (CBS-TV, WCBS) 14 

Come Into My Kitchen (WFMJ, WFMJ-TV) 15 

Deejay on the Keys ( WTCN) 58 

The Personal Touch (KHOL-TV, KHPL-TV) 59 

The Record Players: No Pumpkins, Please by Josh Brady 60 

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES 

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 6 

Information Booth 13 

Movies on TV 16 

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 63 

Beauty: Under the Sun (Toni Campbell) by Harriet Segman 57 

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 81 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 84 

Cover portrait of Tommy Sands by Paul W. Bailey, courtesy of NBC 



BUY YOUR AUGUST ISSUE EARLY 



ON SALE JULY 5 



Invented by a doctor— 
now used by millions of women 



_ _ PUBLISHED MONTHLY by Macfadden 

.\ ,,D * Publications, Inc.. New York, N. Y. 

EXECUTIVE, ADVERTISING AND EDI- 
, TORIAL OFFICES at 205 East 42nd 
* Street. New York, N. Y. Editorial Branch 
.Office: 6260 Selma Ave., Hollywood 28, 
r Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, President; 
l.ee Andrews. Vice President; Meyer 
f(/i|1' Dworkin. Secretary and Treasurer. Adver- 
tising offices also in Chicago, 221 North 
LaSalle Street, and San Francisco. 

SUBSCRIPTION RATES: $3.00 one year, U. S. and 
Possessions and Canada. $5.00 per year for all other 
countries. 

CHANGE OF ADDRESS: 6 weeks' notice essential. 
When possible, please furnish stencil impression ad- 
dress from a recent issue. Address changes can be 
made only if you send us your old, as well as your 
new address. Write to TV Radio Mirror, 205 East 
42nd Street. New York 17, N. Y. 
MANUSCRIPTS: All manuscripts will be carefully con- 



sidered, but publisher cannot be responsible for loss or 
damage. It is advisable to keep a duplicate copy for 
your records. Only those manuscripts accompanied by 
stamped, self-addressed return envelopes or with suffi- 
cient return postage will be returned. 
FOREIGN editions handled through Macfadden Publi- 
cations International Corp.. 205 East 42nd Street. New 
York 17, N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, President: Doug- 
las Lockhart, Vice President. 

RE-ENTERED as Second-Class Matter, June 28, 1954. 
at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.. under the Act of 
March 3. 1S79. Authorized as Second Class mail, P.O. 
Dcpt., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1957 by Mac- 
fadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved under In- 
ternational Copyright Convention. All rights reserved 
under Pan-American Copyright Convention. Todos de- 
rechos reservados segun la Convencion Pan-Americana 
de Propiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark 
registered in U.S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A. 
by Art Color Printing Company. 
. Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group. 




Mitkt^ 



Years from now, passers-by will note their initials 

in the birch tree's bark. And it looks as if this love affair 

would last even longer. Young as they are, both Pat 

and Andy have learned that unpleasant breath is a 

barrier to romance. When they whisper "sweet nothings," 

you may be sure they'll stay sweet, thanks to 

the security that gargling with Listerine Antiseptic brings. 

The most common cause of bad breath is 
germs . . . Listerine kills germs by millions 

The most common cause of bad breath 
by far is germs that ferment the protein always 
present in the mouth. Listerine Antiseptic kills 
germs instantly ... by millions. 

Tooth paste can't kill germs 
the way Listerine does 

Tooth paste can't kill germs the way 
Listerine does, because no tooth 
paste is antiseptic. Listerine IS 
antiseptic. That's why Listerine 
stops bad breath four times 
better than tooth paste. 
Gargle Listerine full-strength, 
morning and night. 







i. 



LISTERINE 

the most widely 

used antiseptic 

in the world. 





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LISTERINE ANTISEPTIC stops bad breath 4 times better than tooth paste 



Icencl with 



IVIOIMIl 






Here's Henry Morgan with Miss Monitor 
(Tedi Thurman), Melody Girl Lorna Lynn. 



Two years ago this June, an elec- 
tronic "bleep" introduced Monitor to 
America. NBC's weekend radio serv- 
ice, it was a new and flexible concept 
that offered something of everything 
and for everybody. There are music, 
news and sports, big names and brief 
skits, visits to night clubs and jaunts 
around the world. It has Dave Garro- 
way to be at "peace" with the world, 
Henry Morgan to satirize it, Bob Elliott 
and Ray Goulding to poke fun at it, an 
army of on-the-go "communicators" 
to report on it — and recently welcomed 
Fibber McGee and Molly to be at home 
with it. With all of this, it's also the 
longest program on the air. Monitor 
warms up Friday from 8 to 10 P.M., 
then settles down for a siege from 8 A.M. 
to midnight, Saturday and Sunday. 




Man of Today, Dove Garroway is the Sunday evening "communicator," 
a low-pressure host who's at peace with everybody on the Monitor globe. 



Monitor's idea paid off, cashed in on 
"counterfeiting" by Bob (right) and Ray. 





Glamour: Fitzgerald Smith party-hops to interview two 
blondes, Monique Van Vooren and Jayne Mansfield. 



Travel: George Folster, NBC correspondent in Tokyo, visits 
the famous Sinza shopping district for an on-the-spot report. 





£§8' 




M.L1T0 PARK € 

195? 

TOSOM, AUE. 




Exclusive: Dick Jennings flew to and from Paris for 
first interview with Ingrid Bergman on her U.S. visit. 



Sports: Monitor's a winner in the coverage of champions. In 
Arizona, there's a run-for-the-money named for the program. 






Stars: Toes of the "Nose," Jimmy 
Durante, were heard coast to coast. 



Bavaria: Exec Producer Al Capstaff 
looses a Radio Free Europe balloon. 



Sounds: Helen Hall listens to the Duffy 
Square pigeons in New York's midtown. 




PERIODIC PAIN 

Don't let the calendar make a 
slave of you, Betty! Just take a 
Midol tablet with a glass of water 
. . . that's all. Midol brings faster 
and more complete relief from 
menstrual pain-it relieves 
cramps, eases headache and 
chases the "blues." 

"WHAT WOMEN WANT TO KNOW" 

a 24-page book explaining menstruation 
is yours, FREE. Write Dep't B-77, Box 280, 



New York 18, N. Y. (Sent in plain wrapper). 




TV. 



RADIO 
MIRROR 



*h 




Harmony doesn't always prevail between political advisers Paul Douglas and 
Darren McGavin and mayor Bob, who loves Vera Miles more than his career. 

TV favorites on your theater screen 



Beau James 

paramount; vistavision, technicolor 
On TV, Bob Hope usually sticks to his 
familiar stint as the brash but likeable 
clown. Now, on the theater screens, he 
steps into the guise of Jimmy Walker, 
New York mayor who symbolized the 
spirit of the Jazz Age, when a peppy per- 
sonality seemed more important than pri- 
vate morality or political integrity. Pulling 
no punches, Bob makes the colorful mayor 
a pitifully human and very endearing 
character. Playing respectively wife and 
girl friend, Alexis Smith and Vera Miles 
give strength to the roles of the women 
in Bob's life. Among his business pals, 
tough Paul Douglas and high-minded Dar- 
ren McGavin are nicely contrasted. To 
bring an era back to life, movie veteran 
Walter Catlett is seen as Al Smith, while 
Jimmy Durante and George Jessel cheer- 
fully portray their own younger selves. 

The Lonely Man 

paramount; vistavision 
Winner of the "best acting" Emmy for his 
work in the TV play "Requiem for a 
Heavyweight," Jack Palance now draws a 



strong movie role in an unusual Western. 
Circumstances have brought him a repu- 
tation as a killer, yet he returns to his 
home town — and to the grown son who 
bitterly hates him. This part offers equally 
rich opportunity for TV grad Anthony 
Perkins. Also with TV experience, Elaine 
Aiken makes a promising film debut as 
the sensible, courageous girl loved by both 
father and son. Here's all the action and 
gunplay you expect of a good horse opera, 
but there's also a bonus, in the picture's 
serious treatment of complex relation- 
ships between human beings. 

The Buster Keaton Story 

PARAMOUNT, VrSTAVISION 

Like Bob Hope, Donald O'Connor is 
currently dropping his own familiar per- 
sonality to take on the mannerisms of 
another celebrity. Usually adept at mug- 
ging, Don goes deadpan to play the sober- 
faced comic of silent-film days. As the 
vaudeville-bred Keaton, Don breaks into 
movies, scores a hit as a slapstick star, 
but has trouble with dames and the bottle. 
On the romantic side, it takes him a while 
to realize that the loyal love of working 



By JANET GRAVES 



girl Ann Blyth is worth more than the 
flamboyant charms of glamour doll Rhonda 
Fleming. 

At Your Neighborhood Theaters 

This Could Be the Night (M-G-M; Cine- 
maScope) : Sparkling romantic comedy 
tosses schoolteacher Jean Simmons into the 
rakish night-club world, where she's pur- 
sued by young Anthony Franciosa and 
guarded by boss Paul Douglas. Dashes of 
song and dance add merriment. 

12 Angry Men (U.A.) : Based on a TV 
play, this vigorous, thought-provoking film 
pits Henry Fonda against eleven fellow 
jurors, all swayed by personal feelings in 
their fight over a murder-trial verdict. Fine 
character portrayals plus the excitement 
of a whodunit. 

The Bachelor Party (U.A.) : Also drawn 
from a TV drama (by Paddy Chayefsky, 
author of "Marty"), this close-up of ordi- 
nary New Yorkers is notable for its frank- 
ness and sympathetic acting. A night on 
the town reveals the domestic problems 
of Don Murray and his office pals, married 
or not. 




'm&$l 



Re-enacting a Keaton scene, Donald 
O'Connor nobly plays heroic mariner. 



New sunshine yellow 

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puts sunny sparkle in hair! 




ihampoo 
plus egg 



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Brunette? Blonde? Redhead? 
You'll thrill when you see how your 
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Try it once, you'll use it always. 

Economical 29i, 59i, $1. 







WHAT'S NEW ON 




By PETER ABBOTT 



Comic Ernie Kovacs, now turned author, commiserates with wife Edie Adams. 
Her shoes pinch, now that she's a barefoot star on Broadway in "Li'l Abner." 



Virginia's Gene Vincent is a solid 
citizen in the rock 'n' roll world. 




Squeeze Gently: Sonny James's most 
expensive item on the road is his long 
distance phone calls to his best gal in 
Dallas. . . . TV execs eating their 
hearts out trying to lure Cary Grant 
into television. . . . Como still refuses 
to let Person To Person come into his 
home, so resistant is Perry to exposing 
his family. . . . Percy Faith takes a 
July vacation into Canada, land of his 
birth. . . . An actor, big radio and TV 
serial star, involved in a real off-stage 
drama as he and his wife try to hold 
on to adopted child. . . . Lovely Fran- 
ces Wyatt, who came out of the chorus 
to solo on Firestone last month, adds 
her soprano to a great fun album, 
"Here Comes the Showboat," pre- 
sented by Epic with "thrills and sur- 
prises for all the family." . . . When 
Tic Tac Dough adds a night-time 
stanza, Jack Barry will step aside for 
another emcee. He's tired. . . . Edie 
Adams, whom you'll be seeing a lot 
of on TV this summer, is spreading 
at the lowest extremes. Her feet are 
getting bigger from dashing about 
barefoot in the Broadway produc- 
tion of "Li'l Abner." 

Secret Sweethearts: In spite of de- 
nials, our Elvis is quite serious about 
his little gal back in Memphis. But 
his brain-trust share the same golden 
jitters that is scaring the ten-percent 
out of most managers of bachelor 
stars. They are convinced that teen- 
age females account for as much as 



75 percent of their success and they 
fear that sudden marriage or an- 
nouncement of a serious romance will 
murder their appeal. Hipsters in the 
recording biz trace Eddie Fisher's 
drop in popularity to the day he 
married Debbie. Prior to the wedding, 
his recordings sold in the millions. 
The exception, of course, is Pat Boone, 
with a wife and three kids. The only 
explanation for this is that Pat came 
into the business with the family. 
Anyway, right or wrong, our young 
glamorous males are in a sweat be- 
cause most of them are truly in love 
and ready for marriage. About the 
only young singer who hasn't a secret 
sweetheart is handsome Tommy 
Sands, but he's so shy and sincere 
that he'll probably get picked off 
first. 

Lotsa Gossip: Pretty Polly Bergen 
and husband Freddie Fields hoping to 
adopt a child this summer. . . . Whis- 
perings that the Pat Boones may 
multiply again. Pat and Shirley make 
no secret of the fact that they would 
love to have a little boy. . . . Snooky 
Lanson may wind up at ABC. . . . 
Bishop Sheen wants to quit his TV 
show. Why? . . . Tell the kids Rin 
Tin Tin has been renewed for two 
more years of adventures. 



Shelter for the Stars: Nanette Fa- 
bray, visiting Manhattan, noted that 
she and new groom, Ranald Mac- 
Dougall, have bought a tract of shore 
land at Newport Beach, just an hour's 
ride from Hollywood studios. They 
will build a home to their own specifi- 
cations. Since Rannie is a writer and 
needs quiet, and since Nan is a singer 
and breaks quiet, they have decided 
to build their workrooms at opposite 
ends of the house. . . . Rosemary 
Prinz, lovely Penny of As The World 
Turns, has moved into her new ranch 
house in Nyack, N. Y. . . . Pity, pity 
Hal and Candy March. They gave up 
parties and weekend invitations to 
house-hunt this past year. They were 
out looking in rain, snow and sleet. 
Finally, up in Westchester, they found 
just the house. Fell in love with it. 
And it was for sale. The sale was 
ready to go through, when illness 
struck in the home of the owner. 
Now the deal has been postponed in- 
definitely. "But, with the new baby, 
we've just got to get out of the apart- 
ment," Hal says. "With Candy, the 
two kids, the baby, the maid and little 
bit of space I take up, there's hardly 
room to move. We'll just have to rent 
a house." . . . And speaking of tem- 
porary shelter, Scott Forbes (Jim 
Bowie) reports being a bit shaken 



For What's New On The West Coast, See Page MO 



THE EAST COAST 




Mm 




Chorus gal with Voice Of Firestone, 
Frances Wyatt is a solo star, too. 




■ ■ 




Western star Scott Forbes, who's often joined on Jim Bowie by his wife, 
Jeanne Moody, came East to find the wildest — a bedroom-full of Presley pix. 



Sweet V lovely Martha Wright gave 
her newborn her husband's nickname. 



during his Manhattan stopover. Scott 
and his actress-wife Jeanne Moody 
stayed with Jeanne's sister and her 
family. Jeanne's niece, thirteen-year- 
old Diane, gave up her bedroom to 
the Forbes. Scott says, "It was the 
strangest feeling, waking in Diane's 
bedroom. The walls are covered with 
Presley pictures." 

B-I-Bickey-Bi, Go, Man, Go: Capi- 
tol's gold-record holder, Gene Vin- 
cent, who rocks like Elvis useter, kind 
of surprised Manhattan girlies. They 
expected him to be as wild as his 
compositions ("B-I-Bickey-Bi, Bo- 
Bo-Go," "Be-Bop-A-Lula"), but Gene 
turned out to be softspoken and reti- 
cent. The Virginian came into the 
city still favoring his bad leg, broken 
when he drove his motorcycle into a 
tree. Norfolk doctors want him to 
give up the two-wheeler, but it's his 
special fun. Medics couldn't even keep 
him in bed long enough to heal the 



break properly. Twice he got up to 
rock against their orders. . . . Please 
note that a Columbia University psy- 
chiatrist describes rock 'n' roll as a 
"contagious epidemic of daricy fury" 
that could possibly sweep the coun- 
try, ending in world chaos — except 
that it's not crazy, just a craze, he 
hopes, he hopes. . . . And Columbia 
U.'s most famous teacher and newly- 
wed, Charlie Van Doren, goes on a 
$50,000 annual retainer with NBC as 
educational advisor. The fee is ten 
times what he makes teaching. 

Call Out the Head Doctors: We've 
mentioned before that the TV net- 
works will be barking sixshooters like 
mad next season. A whole posse of 
adult shoot-em-ups are in the works. 
That's only part of it. There'll also be 
an onslaught of crime. Martin Kane, 
Perry Mason and a slew of sleuths 
come on en masse. But that's not all. 
(Continued on page 79) 




Home for Nanette Fabray and Ran- 
ald MacDougall has two workrooms. 




WHAT'S NEW ON 



New wife for Danny Thomas — on 
TV, that is — is pretty Marjorie Lord. 




Groucho insists he won't eat Bob 
Cobb's hat — the Brown Derby. 




10 



Wise investments mean Welk and 
Myron Floren earn champagne. 



By BUD G00DE 



Traveling: Vacation time will take 
Tennessee Ernie Ford and wife through 
the New England states. . . . George 
Gobel goes to ye jolly olde England on 
a combination business-pleasure trip. 
George will be present at the premiere 
of RKO's "I Married a Woman," with 
Diana Dors. George's young son, 
Gregg, bought his Dad a monocle as a 
gag gift for the trip. Or was it to help 
George see Diana better? . . . Another 
European camera clicker this summer 
will be Lawrence Welk, who has uh- 
one, uh-two weeks to tour the Con- 
tinent. . . . With a flip of his cigar, 
Groucho says about his vacation from 
his NBC-TV show, "For three months 
I know I'm not going to have to eat 
in the Brown Derby at least one night 
a week (show time). The show doesn't 
tire me out . . . but I need a vacation 
from Bob Cobb's cooking. You can 
only eat so many old brown derbies." 
. . . On their vacation, Desi and Lucy 
moved into their new $11,000,000 home 
in Palm Springs — Desi's Western Hills 
Hotel. After a two-week stay, Lucy 
agreed that Desi's service was pretty 
good, saying, "But how come I can't 
get him to do anything around the 
house?" . . . Eddie Fisher and Debbie 
took the baby on their Las Vegas jun- 
ket. Eddie wowed 'em at the Tropicana. 
Eyeful Elaine Dunn, also in the act, 
will be featured on Eddie's TV show in 
the fall. . . . Gale Storm, who has 
traveled everywhere in the world on 
Stage 1 in her Hal Roach series, Oh! 
Susanna, has gone to Colorado Springs 
for husband Lee Bonnell's insurance 
convention. 

The Shape of Things : Not-so-ama- 
teur-painter, Jack Bailey, is teaching 
art to the pretty Queen For A Day 
models. Jack uses oranges, apples and 
vases in still-life form to teach princi- 
ples of composition, shape and form. 
. . . Pat Boone's wife, Shirley, who has 
been resting flat on her back under a 
doctor's care since their last baby was 
born, is now 90% recovered. A few 
weeks ago, Pat went out on a personal 
appearance tour, was gone 10 days. 
Since their marriage four years ago, 
this was the longest they had ever been 
apart. . . . Jack Webb dating Jackie 
Loughery, seen on TV in the Judge 
Roy Bean series and the lead in his 
new film, "The D.I." . . . Jack Carson 
and Lola Albright together-apart again. 
. . . Molly Bee introduced Tommy Sands 
to her priest, Father Michael, at Holly- 
wood's Blessed Sacrament. . . . And 
speaking of romance: Danny Thomas 
"weds" Marjorie Lord, not for life, just 
five years or more with options. Mar- 
jorie is Danny's new "wife" on Make 
Room For Daddy. 



For What's New On The East Coast, See Page 8 



Books 'n' Bikes: This shuttle-flying 
back and forth makes Hollywood and 
New York like the two opposite ends 
of a yoyo. Ernie Kovacs' wife, Edie 
Adams, flew in for one night and then 
back again to her Broadway play, "Li'l 
Abner." Kovacs is in Hollywood star- 
ring in Columbia's "The Mad Ball." 
With Ernie, everything is a "mad ball." 
During his last two-week vacation, he 
wrote a novel, "Zoomar," a close-up of 
the television industry. "Actually," says 
Ernie, "the book took only thirteen days 
to write. I spent the rest of the time 
changing ribbons. Book will be pub- 
lished by Doubleday. What's the book 
about? Well, it's a different book about 
the entertainment industry — the mar- 
ried couple end up with each other." . . . 
Clint Walker of ABC-TV's Cheyenne, 
his wife Verna, and their six-year-old 
daughter, Valerie, can be seen early 
mornings flying along the dirt roads 
near their North Hollywood home. On 
horseback? No. On the latest in Italian 
motor scooters. Clint's newest hobby is 
the trim two-wheeler. He has "his" and 
"her" models, one for wife Verna and 
one for himself. Daughter Valerie rides 
in a wire basket seat on the handlebars. 
The Old West was never like this. 

Casting: Beautiful, talented teenager 
Margaret O'Brien, beginning her new 
TV series, Maggie, . . . Hal March be- 
gins shooting his picture, "Hear Me 
Good," in mid-June. . . . Dorothy Shay, 
the mad Manhattan Hillbilly, and 
Michael Wilding, the veddy proper 
Britisher, will share TV panel show, 
What's The Occasion? . . . Charles 
Bickford has the lead in Boots And 
Saddles, a post-Civil War cavalry 
series. . . . Don't be surprised if Tommy 
Sands subs for Tennessee Ernie on his 
Thursday-night Ford Show. . . . John 
Payne in the Restless Gun series on 
NBC -TV. . . . Joan Caulfield in Sally 
on CBS -TV. . . . Bette Davis to star in 
and host a dramatic series. . . . And 
casting in reverse: Gordon MacRae 
moves behind the Lux Video cameras 
part of next season to assume direc- 
torial chores. . . . Finally, Jeff Donnell 
closes out the George Gobel season with 
her last guest appearance. We hope this 
means Jeff will be on the first show 
when George and Eddie Fisher join 
hands in the fall. 

Bing Wings : Crosby has taken to fly- 
ing. Bing has studiously ignored travel 
by air before. No reason. On last trip 
to Europe, he came and went by boat. 
Now he has begun regularly reading 
airplane magazines and the flying col- 
umns in the newspapers, and recently 
flew to a Las Vegas charity golf tourna- 
ment. Maybe he's going to buy an air- 
line. . . . Bing's youngest son, Lindsay, 
in town for Easter vacation, called his 



THE WEST COAST 




Girls, girls, girls get in the act with Eddie Fisher at the Tropicana in Las 
Vegas. Elaine Dunn (seen in center) will go on Eddie's TV show in the fall. 




Dad on the M-G-M set of "Man on 
Fire," asking if he and some friends 
could visit. Bing said "Sure," calling 
one of his assistants to look after 
Linny and his pals. When Lin hit town 
he called all of his old buddies to say 
hello — and when he arrived on the 
set, he was dragging twenty-five of 
them along with him. Imagine the con- 
sternation on Bing's face when he saw 
the commissary lunch tag signed by his 
assistant: "Twenty-six lunches, Lind- 
say and friends. . . ." 

Banjo-Eyes' Birthday: "I'm 26 years 
older than Jack Benny," says Eddie 
Cantor with a laugh. On April 22, Eddie 
and his wife Ida drew their first Social 
Security check— $323.40. The usually 
confidential information was released 
by Eddie to publicize the insurance 
benefits of Social Security for all men 
over age 65 (62, for women). Cantor, 
who celebrated his 65th birthday last 
January with an hour-long television 
show, says, "My Social Security, and 
yours, too, is just like any other in- 
surance policy ... it pays off, and be- 
believe me," says Banjo-Eyes, "I intend 
to collect!" 

Did You Know: That when Jack Webb 
was in high school, he wrote poetry 
. . . that Mercedes McCambridge al- 
ways wanted to be a newspaper re- 
porter . . . that George Brent breeds 



race horses . . . that Edgar Bergen's 
hobby is antique autos? 

Postal Present: The Lennon Sisters' 
Venice, California mailman, Jack Arter, 
is their best buddy. The Lennons grew 
up with Jack, who has delivered their 
mail for the last thirteen years, whis- 
tling while he did it. But during the 
past few months, their fans had sent 
so many letters and packages that poor 
Jack could barely stagger up the front 
steps, and was too out of wind to whis- 
tle. So the girls invested in a present for 
him — the largest mailbox they could 
find — and, to save Jack steps, they 
planted it next to the sidewalk. Thank 
you, Jack is once again whistling. 

Who's Breaking Records? Pat Boone's 
"Why, Baby, Why?" over the million 
mark. Pat has just bought $100,000 
worth of real estate in Brentwood and 
Palm Springs. . . . Tab Hunter started 
taking singing lessons when he was 16. 
It didn't pay off until recently, when his 
two records, "Young Love" and "99 
Ways," skyrocketed across the radio 
and TV airways, bringing Tab a 
quarter-of-a-million. . . . Breaking rec- 
ords of a different sort, Climax!, on 
CBS-TV, has just been signed through 
1960; and Matinee Theater, brain-child 
of producer Albert McCleery, has been 
set through 1958 on NBC-TV. . . . 
Tommy Sands' (Continued on page 75) 



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11 




OF MANY WORDS 



If he has a hobby, Bergen says, it would be 
sleuthing out literary facts and fallacies. 





He rides a motorcycle, or falls back 
on a bike — "figuratively," he insists. 



12 




Too happy for hobbies, says Bergen, "I find my satisfaction 
in my work" — and with his wife Jean and sons Derek and Scott. 



Address Bergen Evans in Chicago, the world of words, realm of ideas. 



Teacher's dirty looks" don't bother Bergen Evans' 
students — as long as they laugh at his jokes. Which 
isn't hard. The jokes are funny. The wit was so 
lively, in fact, that it bounded the Northwestern 
University English professor into a coast-to-coast class. 
Evans is still at work taking the pain out of grammar 
and the bugaboos out of book learning. . . . On 
radio, there is the man, the mind and the microphone 
combining to deliver provocative "spoken" essays on 
Of Many Things. Ranging from the nature of humor, 
happiness or Hemingway to the new suburbia or the 
old Machiavelli, it is heard on the Westinghouse Broad- 
casting stations (WBZ-WBZA in Boston-Springfield, 
KYW in Philadelphia, KDKA in Pittsburgh, WOWO 
in Fort Wayne, KEX in Portland, WIND in 
Chicago) and on New York City's Station WNYC. . . . 
Bergen joins authors, lecturers and raconteurs on 
The Last Word, seen Sunday at 3:30 P.M. on CBS-TV 
and heard Saturday at 6:30 P.M. on CBS Radio. 
The subject is usage and grammar, and, with Evans to 
keep the arguments brewing, it's a stimulating 
libation. Behind the scenes, Bergen's the man behind 
the questions on $64,000 Question and Challenge. . . . 
Born near Dayton, Ohio, Evans spent his boyhood 
in England, where his doctor-father was in the 
consular service. The elder Dr. Evans likes to tell of 
how young Bergen would mumble in the London 
streetcars until somebody asked him what he was 
mumbling about. "Kipling," Bergen would answer, 
then climb on the seat to declaim the rest of the 
piece. . . . Author of "The Natural History of Nonsense," 
"The Spoor of Spooks," and a new "Dictionary of 
American Usage," Bergen recalls that his initial 
broadcasting adventure was unimpressive. When the 
dean heard his audition record for a University radio 
program, he suggested politely that Evans take a course 
in remedial speech. But you can't keep an ebullient 
man down. In 1949, Bergen joined the panel of 
Majority Rules, then really made his mark on Down 
You Go. "When I first went on the air, speech 
students would approach me and tell me I had glottal 
stop and such things," Bergen recounts. "When the 
show succeeded, it was too bitter a blow for them." 
. . . Bergen met his wife Jean when she, a Vassar grad, 
was taking some extension courses — not Bergen's — at 
Northwestern. They live with their two sons — Derek, 13, 
and Scott, 11 — in suburban Northfield. Professes 
the professor, "The besetting sin of my life is to 
have a joke. It can be dangerous." It can also be fun. 



information booth 




Frank Lovejoy 



Bull On Broadway 

/ would like to know something about 
Frank Lovejoy. A. S., Detroit, Mich. 

It was a highly significant departure 
that brought Frank Lovejoy down from 
the Exchange boards of Wall Street to 
the boards of Broadway prosceniums. 
Frank first hit Broadway in 1934 via 
Elmer Rice's "Judgment Day." The big 
break had followed five years of prepara- 
tion for the way of a Thespian, marked by 
a stiff apprenticeship at the Brooklyn 
Theater Mart, where he had served on 
evenings free from runner duties along a 
very depressed Wall Street. A short while 
afterwards, a "Pursuit of Happiness" 
touring company closed down abruptly in 
Cincinnati — leaving Frank stranded. With 
a knack for "turning a 'bear' into a 
'bull,' " to use the brokerage vernacular, 
he won a staff job at WLW. On his return 
to New York, Frank found no lack of work. 
His radio performances — which have in- 
cluded starring roles in Gangbusters, Mr. 
District Attorney, Boston Blackie and 
numerous other mystery serials — now total 
in excess of 5,000 separate network pro- 
ductions. In 1940, he returned to Broad- 
way in "The Snark Was a Bojum" — a 
misleading title, it turned out, for the 
play was a "turkey." But it did serve to 
introduce Frank to a young stage and 
radio actress, Joan Banks, whom he mar- 
ried shortly after the play closed. They 
have two children, Judith, now 12, and 
Stephen, 9. . . . Frank is known to the 
movie audiences, too, especially for his 
roles in "Champion," "Julie" and "Stra- 
tegic Air Command." For the past year, 
he's been "Mike Barnett," private dick on 
NBC-TV's Man Against Crime series, and 
several other protagonists on Playhouse 
90, Four Star Playhouse and Ford Theater 
productions. He may star in a new TV 
series come fall. Frank's often heard on 
radio's Suspense and Family Theater 
dramas, often co-starring with his wife. . . . 
All told, it was no "walk up "he plank" 
Frank elected some 20-odd years ago when 
he strolled north to Broadway. 



No Nonsense 

The World History class at Massey Hill 
High School has found programs like 
NBC-TV's Bengal Lancers very helpful. 
Could we have some information on Phil 
Carey, who is Lt. Rhodes on that program? 
J. B., Fayetteville, N. C. 

Eugene Joseph Carey, known to TV 
audiences as Lt. Michael Rhodes of the 
77th Bengal Lancers, was always very 
happy with his own given name, or, at 
least, with the seemly contraction "Gene." 
But his studio, Warner Bros., was adamant 
and, in 1950, Gene Carey was rechristened, 
albeit sans ceremony, Phil Carey, and 
launched on "Operation Pacific," replete 
with new moniker and new career. After 
that, the sailing was smooth. Phil re- 
members that stars can be very helpful to 
a young actor. "Working with a Wayne or 
a Cooper as I did those first few years, you 
find out they're nice to you if you're nice 
to work with. Those pros like to help, but 
they don't like to put up with nonsense 
when they're working." . . . Born in Hack- 
ensack in 1925 (July 15th, to be exact), 
Phil served in the Marines for three years 
of World War II, planned to attend Notre 
Dame on his G.I. allotment. Instead, while 
awaiting admission there, he was lured by 
a friend to Miami U., where he was so 
successful in college dramatic productions 
that he decided to chance the field. "I've 
never regretted it," declares Phil. And he 
never regretted Miami U., either, for it 
was there he met art student Maureen 
Peppier. Married in 1949, they now have 
three children: Linda, almost 7, Jeffrey, 
almost 6, and Lisa Ann, just over one. 
They live in a ranch house in Sherman 
Oaks, California, and Phil yearns for a 
working-ranch life, some day. . . . With 
a capacity for work matched only by his 
enthusiasm, Phil Carey is a polished per- 
former, self-aware and ambitious. He has 
great hopes for the Lancers, but loves mov- 
ies, too, is currently in "Wicked As They 
Come" and "Shadow on the Window." 
{Continued on page 85) 




Phil Carey 




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13 



Inside 





Bill Leonard's beat is a city with as many stories as it has people. 



New York is too big for a formula — and 
so is a show about New York. 
Taking it from there, Bill Leonard tells 
tales on the tall city in Eye On New 
York, seen on the CBS -TV network each 
Saturday at 2 P.M. EDT, and on This Is New 
York, heard on New York's Station 
WCBS, Monday to Friday from 10 to 
11 P.M. Earnest and outspoken, with 
a warm smile and a shock of prematurely 
iron-gray hair, Bill makes only one re- 
striction. "I cover what interests me," he 
says. "Who is so wise that they can 
guess 'what the public wants'? I figure 
people are not so very different." Bill may 
delve into the city's history or reflect 
on the future, as he did when Joe Louis 
was to meet Ezzard Charles. Bill boxed 
each of them to foretell the outcome. 
Bill talks to men in the public eye and 
men in the street. His series on West Side 
slums and on graft in the housing de- 
partment led to improvements in both 
areas. "People said we shouldn't show 
this," Bill says of his series on the mentally 
retarded at Wassau. "But we did and 
the world seemed to survive and maybe 
learned something." Bill makes Monday- 
morning headlines when, each Sunday 
at 11:05 A.M., he's moderator on the 
Let's Find Out panel on WCBS. . . . Born 
in New York, Bill stayed for only three 
weeks. Then he moved to Orange, New 
Jersey, and, at age twelve, to Westport, 
Connecticut. "I'm the only guy who ever 
came from Westport," he grins. The early 
passion of his life, and still a ruling 
one, was "ham" radio. He does the Amateur 
Radio Program for the Voice of America, 
and holds the world's record for a single 
operator, having made 842 contacts in 
96 hours. ... It was Budd Schulberg, 
then editor of the Dartmouth College 
paper, who first got Bill interested in 
journalism. Bill succeeded Budd as editor, 
and, after graduation, went into the 
newspaper business. Then came his own 
radio production company and work 
in the radio department of an advertising 
agency. He began This Is New York 
on December 31, 1945, when he changed 
from Lieutenant Commander in the Navy 
to civilian. . . . Bill's love affair with New 
York isn't a blind one. He could live and 
be happy elsewhere — although he isn't 
over-anxious to try. "Everybody who wants 
to amount to anything is trying to get to 
New York," he grins, "and everybody 
else is trying to get out!" 



When an apartment, even a duplex, 
is "home," a window is the "garden." 



"I'm as good at cooking," says 
Bill, "as I'm bad at gardening." 



Ham radio's a passion. Bill's been to 
100 countries by radio, 65 in person. 



14 




COME INTO 
MY KITCHEN 



To Marjorie Mariner, sharing 
recipes over WFMJ-TV is just like 
visiting over the back fence 




! 




Assistant "My Margaret" Hertok shares Marjorie's 
love of cooking — be it muffins or more exotic fare. 



At home, Marjorie tends to her mending, Janis to her 
homework, Minola to training Irish setter Chet to "sit." 
Janis likes to cook, too, perks up dishwashing with phone. 




My only ambition," says Marjorie Mariner, "was to 
get married." And Marjorie's career as a wife and 
mother has always come first. That she's a television 
star, too, on Station WFMJ-TV in Youngstown, Ohio, is 
the icing atop her cake. "It's wonderful when a gal can 
cook and talk and get paid for it," she laughs. . . . On 
Kitchen Corner, seen each weekday from 1:15 to 1:45 
P.M., she encourages a love for cooking and an aware- 
ness of better food habits for better health. "And shar- 
ing of recipes," says Marjorie, "is just like visiting over 
the back fence." Each day, her "visit" is different. 
Monday, it's seasonal cooking ideas; Tuesday's the day 
for club ideas; Thursday, for special diets. On Wednes- 
day and Friday, she invites a guest homemaker to 
prepare her favorite recipe. Marjorie is also heard daily 
on WFMJ Radio at 8: 45 A.M., when she joins Bob Jolly, 
Bob Locke and Kathryn Leskosky on the Coffee An' 
panel. . . . Marjorie's home has always been in Youngs- 
town and her earliest recollection of public appearances 
are times her mother, who wrote poems, lifted her over 
the rostrum at church to "speak" them. Her interest in 
cooking started early, too, and she baked her first cake 



when she was just seven. She studied home economics 
and nutrition at Ohio State and taught school for five 
years. "Then I married the first love I ever had," says 
Marjorie. "We had not dated for years and then we met 
again after college and fell madly in love again, this 
time for keeps." And so she married Minola Mariner, 
a civil engineer in construction work. They have a son, 
Joseph, who's a sophomore at Ohio Northern University, 
where he's preparing to be a lawyer. Daughter Janis, a 
senior at high school, wants to study journalism. The 
Mariners' home is a remodeled farmhouse with ten 
acres of land and three dogs. "Do they ever love what's 
left over of my cooking," laughs Marjorie. . . . Her 
broadcasting career began when Marjorie was asked to 
judge some recipes in a contest on radio. This led to a 
daily, five-minute show. "When TV started," she says, 
"it seemed natural to do a cooking show." While teach- 
ing nutrition classes for the American Red Cross, she 
received what she considers her greatest compliment. 
"Please send Marjorie," the women requested. "She's not 
too smart and we can understand her and how she loves 
to cook — just like us." Marjorie thinks that's just fine. 



15 



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BERLIN CORRESPONDENT (RKO): 
Mild World War II thriller casts Dana An- 
drews as an American newsman who makes 
like Superman in Nazi Germany, fooling the 
Ostapo, rescuing sweetie Virginia Gilmore. 

BILL OF DIVORCEMENT (RKO) : Mem- 
orable acting by Katharine Hepburn and the 
late John Barry more. As his daughter, she 
finds her happiness threatened by his fight 
with mental illness. 

BORN TO KILL (RKO): Determinedly 
tough crime story. Murderer Lawrence Tier- 
ney snares himself a rich, innocent wife, 
with the aid of equally hardboiled Claire 
Trevor. Good acting, sordid plot. 

DOCTOR TAKES A WIFE, THE (Co- 
lumbia): Pleasantly dizzy comedy plants 
bachelor Ray Milland and lady bachelor 
Loretta Young in the same apartment. For 
business reasons, they have to pretend they're 
married. You guess what happens. 

FOREVER AMBER (20th): As an ad- 
venturess in 17th-century England, Linda 
Darnell collects a variety of men, including 
George Sanders, as King Charles II. But she 
can't rapture her true love, seafaring Cornel 
Wilde. 

FURY AT FURNACE CREEK (20th): 
Good, solid Western. Gambler Vic Mature 
and Army officer Glenn Langan plot in dif- 
ferent ways to save their dead father's good 
name. Coleen Gray is Vic's girl. 

GALLANT JOURNEY (Columbia): As a 
little-known pioneer of aviation, Glenn Ford 
does glider flights in the 1880's, beating the 
Wright brothers into the air. Janet Blair's 
his loyal wife. 

GARDEN OF ALLAH (U.A.) : Colorful, 
old-style love story of the desert, teaming 
Marlene Dietrich with Charles Boyer, as a 
renegade monk. 

IN NAME ONLY (RKO): Strong, adult 
treatment of a marital triangle. Cary Grant 
is the well-meaning, suburban New York 
husband; Kay Francis, his selfish wife; the 
late Carole Lombard, a young widow who 
truly loves him. 

LODGER, THE (20th): The classic true 
story of London's Jack the Ripper gets an 
elegant film translation. The late Laird 
Cregar plays the mad killer: Merle Oberon, 
a potential victim; George Sanders, a Scot- 
land Yard man. 

MOSS ROSE (20th): Smooth murder mys- 
tery, set in England. Social-climbing chorine 
Peggy Cummins trails suspect Vic Mature to 
a country estate where Ethel Barrymore holds 
sway. 

OUR WIFE (Columbia) : Frothy farce with 
highly engaging players. Musician Melvyn 
Douglas gets out of an alcoholic fog to find 
romance with scientist Ruth Hussey. Ex- 
wife Ellen Drew interferes. 

TALL IN THE SADDLE (RKO): Vigor- 
ous horse opera with a lively love interest. 
Fighting for his inheritance, aided by pal 
Gabby Hayes, John Wayne has time for 
romance with rancher Ella Raines. 



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Ahoy, My Mate! 




Deborah and Penelope watch Bob as Dan Tempest, but they don't link this swashbuckler with their gentle dad. 



Our neighbors at Hampstead Heath, a residential area 
just outside of London, half expect Bob to come 
home every night armed with cutlass and fierce 
scowl. Instead, a tall, respectably dressed young man 
strolls sedately up our walk to be greeted with shouts of 
affection from our two little girls, Deborah, aged three, 
and Penelope, who is two. 

The wholly unwarlike gentleman is my husband, Rob- 
ert Shaw. In the starring role of Dan Tempest in the 
CBS-TV series, The Buccaneers, he captains the crew 
of the pirate galleon, Sultana. He swings from the rig- 
ging, knife in teeth, and generally operates in the midst 
of ferocious violence. But always, he fights for a good 
cause, the brave prototype of a seafaring Robin Hood. 



Bob and I first met when both of us were touring with 
the Old Vic company. I played fiery ingenues and he 
called me his "red-haired vixen." . . . Bob actually en- 
joys writing as much as acting, and one of his plays, "Off 
the Mainland," was produced recently in London. 
Brought up in Truro, very near the Cornish port of 
Falmouth where most of the scenes for The Buccaneers 
are filmed, Bob finds it quite natural to spend most of his 
working days on a ship's deck. As for me, I plan to return 
to the stage when our girls are older. Meanwhile, I'm 
quite content to be both wife to Robert Shaw, a mild- 
mannered and devoted husband and father, and mate to 
Dan Tempest, a bold buccaneer. Either way, I hope he 
never makes me walk the plank. He better not! 



18 



As buccaneer Dan Tempest, 

he's swashbuckling; as my husband, 

Robert Shaw, just s' wonderful ! 

By JENNIFER BOURKE SHAW 




Perhaps I shouldn't reveal this, but Bob concocts 
dishes I'm sure no pirate ever ate — much less cooked! 




And what brave buccaneer ever batted at cricket or 
lavished the loving care Bob does on our Rolls Royce? 





As Dan Tempest, Bob spends most of his working days aboard 
the Sultana. He grew up near by the port where it's docked. 



Robert Shaw stars in The Buccaneers, seen on CBS-TV. 
Sat., 7:30 P.M. EDT, for Sylvania Electric Products. 



19 









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Lawrence Welk extended a welcoming hand — and a contract with his band — just as Jack's Navy duty ended. 

} ' j | J j | fp 'I j J ||j Kj 




IMEL from INDIANA 



True to the best land-locked Hoosier 



traditions, Jack joined the Navy- 



to conquer the world on the Welk shows 



By MAURINE REMENIH 



Not many sailors make an overnight switch from 
Navy anonymity to the center of a TV spotlight. 
Julius La Rosa did it, some years ago. And 
now comes Jack Imel, new marimba player and dancer 
with the Lawrence Welk organization, on both the 
Top Tunes And New Talent show on Monday nights, and 
the "Champagne Music" hour on Saturday evenings. 

Jack signed a contract with the Welk organization 
last January 9— two days before the official termination 
of his stretch in the Navy. It was a wonderful break 
for Jack Imel. But the deal was hardly one-sided — the 
Welk organization got, in Jack, a man who has been 
preparing for twenty years for just the type of spot 



Continued 



21 




Above, Jack shows son Greg his Navy "Oscars" and 
photo from first appearance on Welk shows in 1957. 
Below, he shows daughter Debbie "how high is up." 




Norma and Jack were childhood sweethearts back in 
Portland, Indiana, where both played in the school 
band. They were wed in 1 95 1 , when Jack was just 1 9. 



IMEL from INDIANA 

(Continued) 



which their big Monday and Saturday shows give him. 

When you learn that Jack is only in his mid-twenties 
now, it doesn't take advanced mathematics to figure he 
was practically born a musician. That's what his mother 
thought, back in Portland, Indiana, when she watched 
her only child, as the four-year-old danced to the tunes 
coming in on the radio. She sent him off to dancing 
school, and saw to it that he took piano lessons. Then, 
when Jack was about fifteen, his mother went to a 
movie one night, and saw a young boy playing a 
marimba. "That would be a good instrument for Jack 
to try," she decided — and ordered one for him the very 
next day. 

That instrument has become as much a part of Jack 
as his good right arm. He claims he'd as soon lose one 
as the other. The marimba carried him through high 
school, directed his course in the Navy, and now has 
enabled him to hit a spot where he can assure his 
family of a more-than-comfortable living. If he pats 
the "vibes" (as he calls it) with an almost-personal 
affection, it's understandable. 

Taking lessons on the marimba wasn't the easiest 
thing to do there in Portland, which had a population 
of 10,000. There wasn't any teacher in town. There was, 
however, a marimba instructor in Richmond, some fifty 
miles away. So a compromise was effected. Both the 
instructor and Jack drove to Marion, a town half-way 
between. There, at the home of a girl who was also 
studying marimba, Jack got his lessons. 

He was an apt pupil, and in no time was playing for 
school and club programs in Portland. Dorothy Durbin, 
who had a booking agency in near-by Fort Wayne (and 
who also started that other Hoosier, Herb Shriner, on 
his way), got Jack some dates at lodge meetings and 
conventions in near-by towns. 

Jack's bookings became so heavy, in his last years 
at high school, that it became slightly complicated, just 
fitting them in with his school work. His folks would 
pick him up after school, and they'd drive — usually some 



22 





"Navy wife" Norma followed where Jack's duty led. Greg was born at Great 
Lakes Naval Hospital in 1953, Debbie was born in San Diego two years later. 



fifty miles — to play at some Elks or Eagles lodge meeting. 
Then, late at night, after the show was over, the Imels 
would head back for Portland. There was one longer 
trip, when Jack made it back to Portland just in time 
for his first class in the morning! In all, Pop Imel drove 
the family car about 100,000 miles, during Jack's years 
in high school, just chauffeuring his offspring around to 
his various appearances. 

Jack realizes now that this was about the best "basic 
training" any performer could get. At an early age, 
he was trained, through these club dates, to be at ease 



in front of an audience, and to be in control of himself 
and his instrument. 

Which is not to say that all those youthful public 
appearances went smoothly, and without incident. There 
was one horrible night when he was scheduled to play 
for the Eagles Lodge in Richmond. He was given a big- 
buildup type of introduction, and walked onstage toward 
his waiting marimba. Only then did he discover he'd 
left his hammers at home! And, in case you haven't no- 
ticed, one just doesn't play a marimba without hammers 
— those implements which look (Continued on page 66) 



The Lawrence Welk Show is seen on ABC-TV, Sat., 9 to 10 P.M., sponsored by the Dodge Dealers of America. Lawrence Welk's Top Tunes And 
New Talent is seen on ABC-TV, Mon., 9:30 to 10:30 P.M., for both Dodge and Plymouth. On ABC Radio, Lawrence Welk and his band are 
heard Sat., at 10:05 P.M., once a week on ABC's Dancing Party, M-F, 9:30 P.M., also other times; see local papers. (All times given are EDT) 



23 




Colorful as their voices: Left to right — Teri Keane, Claire Niesen, Sandy Becker, Florence Freeman, and Claudia Morgan. 

£%ctu&we{ 



FIRST COLOR PHOTOGRAPH EVER 
TAKEN OF THE BELOVED, TALENTED 
STARS OF ALL TEN CBS RADIO 
DAYTIME DRAMATIC "SMASH HITS" 



No theater on Broadway, not all Times Square 
itself, could boast the fabulously long-run hits 
represented. by these smiling stars — who hold the same 
devoted audiences, day after day, while adding new 
generations of listeners. 

The average run of these current CBS Radio day- 
time dramas is about eighteen years. The two young- 
est celebrate their tenth anniversary this year. The 
two oldest were premiered back in 1933, and their more 
than 6,000 scripts (apiece!) are approximately the 
equivalent of 350 full-length stage plays. 



Into your homes every day come the fascinating characte 



" 




Jtellar quintet from five more dramas: Virginia Payne, Julie Stevens, Don MacLaughlin, Joan Tompkins, and Vivian Smolen. 



For even the most successful Broadway hit, the cur- 
tain must go down each night. But daytime dramas 
grow and develop through the years, telling "what 
happened next" to characters the audiences now know 
and love. That's the secret of this hit-drama success 
story: Well- written scripts about lives as real to us 
as our own — superbly acted by people as warm and 
true as our next-door neighbors. 

The ten stars pictured here are best known for the 
lives they live each day, over the magic microphone: 
Teri Keane as The Second Mrs. Burton; Claire Niesen 



as Mary Noble, Backstage Wife; Sandy Becker as 
Young Dr. Malone; Florence Freeman in the title role 
of Wendy Warren And The News; Claudia Morgan as 
Carolyn Nelson in The Right To Happiness. 

And, above: Virginia Payne — Ma Perkins herself; 
Julie Stevens in the title role of The Romance Of 
Helen Trent; Don MacLaughlin as Dr. Jim Brent in 
The Road Of Life; Joan Tompkins — This Is Nora 
Drake, in person; Vivian Smolen as Our Gal Sunday. 

They're wonderful people in their own right, too, as 
even thumbnail sketches of their lives will prove! 



See Next Page 



ayed by these radio "greats." Here are their personal stories 



Stars in the daytime four CBS radio favorites 




9* 



w 



~w 




Colorful as their voices: Left to right-Ten Keone, Cloire Nie Sen , Sandy Becke, Flo,en< e IW 

FIRST COLOR PHOTOGRAPH EVER 
TAKEN OF THE BELOVED, TALENTED 
STARS OF ALL TEN CBS RADIO 
DAYTIME DRAMATIC "SMASH HITS" 



IV 

man, and Claudia Morgan. IPellarqumtet from five more dramas: Virginia Payne, Julie Stevens, Don MacLaughlin, Joan Tompkins, and Vivian Smolen 



^lo theater on Broadway, not all Times Square 
■ ^ itself, could boast the fabulously long-run hits 
represented by these smiling stars— who hold the same 
devoted audiences, day after day, while adding new 
generations of listeners. 

t™ j avera S e ru « of these current CBS Radio day- 
J^, i f"? ,s about eighteen years. The two young- 
1 * ate th eir tenth anniversary this year. The 
than fi ™n Were P r emiered back in 1933, and their more 
em/Ll ♦ Tl?^ (^ece!) are approximately the 
equivalent of 350 full-length stage plays. 



For even the most successful Broadway hit, the cur- 
tain must go down each night. But daytime dramas 
grow and develop through the years, telling "what 
3 pened next" to characters the audiences now know 
*£ ,?; , That ' s the secret of this hit-drama success 
Moi y: well- written scripts about lives as real to us 

i as our own— superbly acted by people as warm and 
true as our next-door neighbors, 
livt «, ten f tars P'otured here are best known for the 

> Twfi? ey ve each da y> over the magic microphone: 
e n ft-eane as The Second Mrs. Burton; Claire Niesen 



as Mary Noble, Backstage Wife; Sandy Becker as 
Young Dr. Malone; Florence Freeman in the title role 
of Wendy Warren And The News; Claudia Morgan as 
Carolyn Nelson in The Right To Happiness. 

And, above: Virginia Payne— Ma Perkins herself; 
Julie Stevens in the title role of The Romance Of 
Helen Trent; Don MacLaughlin as Dr. Jim Brent in 
The Road Of Life; Joan Tompkins— This Is Nora 
Drake, in person; Vivian Smolen as Our Gal Sunday. 

They're wonderful people in their own right, too, as 
even thumbnail sketches of their lives will prove! 

See Aext Page > 



inciting cho 



io "greats.'' Here are their personal stc 




more than eight years, but she's been 
the Backstage Wife of matinee-idol 
Larry Noble (James Meighan) even 
longer — ever since the drama moved 
from Chicago to New York, in 1945. 
Claire herself had moved to Man- 
hattan from her native Phoenix, 
Arizona, when she was 8. She danced 
professionally during vacations, still 
did so well scholastically that she was 
valedictorian at her high-school 
graduation. Acting was always her 
first love, and she got her start in a 
Shakespearean series on a local New 
York station. Reversing the usual 
procedure, Claire won her first 
Broadway role as a result of TV 
appearances. She's still very much a 



back on Long Island — with Ruth, son 
Curtis, older daughter Joyce and 
younger daughter Annelle. . . . 
Florence Freeman, who created the 
title role in Wendy Warren And The 
News, has the talent and training to 
be a good journalist. But teaching is 
the only career which ever side- 
tracked her from acting. A native 
New Yorker, Florence gave her first 
recitation in kindergarten, won a 
dramatics medal in high school — 
then earned A.B. and MA. degrees 
at Wells College and Columbia U. 
She was teaching in Pearl River, 
N. Y., when friends dared her to try 
radio. She auditioned for a New 
York station in earlv morning, was 




Claire 
Niesen 




Sandy 
Becker 



Florence 
Freeman 



Claudia 
Morgan 



Singing has vied with acting as a 
possible career for Teri Keane. 
She was born in New York City, 
where her mother — a leading colora- 
tura from Budapest's Royal Opera 
House — enrolled her at the Profes- 
sional Children's School, thinking it 
was for the offspring of busy show 
people, rather than actual child per- 
formers. Teri's talents were soon dis- 
covered, and she made her stage 
debut at 9 — by 19, she'd appeared in 
two Broadway plays and three musi- 
cals. She also got an early start in 
radio, where she's best known today 
as Terry in The Second Mrs. Burton 
— a role she took over just this year 
— and as Jocelyn in The Road Of 
Life. Not so much taller than her 
own six-year-old daughter Sharon, 
Teri has won dancing contests, been 
a featured singer at swank night 
clubs, and still takes vocal lessons. 
. . . Claire Niesen has been married 
to popular actor Melville Ruick for 



wife offstage, however, designs most 
of her own chic wardrobe, enjoys 
needlework — and gourmet-husband 
Mel swears by (not at) her cooking. 
.... Sandy Becker's father wanted 
him to be a doctor, but Sandy didn't 
achieve that status until he took over 
as Young Dr. Malone on March 21, 
1949 — the day before his own son 
was born. Radio lured Sandy from 
pre-medical studies at N.Y.U. in his 
teens. Before that, he'd dabbled in 
puppeteering and dramatics at school 
in Elmhurst, on New York's Long 
Island. Sandy made his mike debut 
at a near-by station, was an experi- 
enced announcer by the time he pur- 
sued his calling to Charlotte, N.C. 
There, he spotted his future wife — 
and recognized her at first sight, 
though pretty Ruth Venable took a 
bit more persuading. They met in 
June, eloped in July, had a church 
wedding in August. Now, in his mid- 
30's, Sandy shares a lovely home — 



so successful they kept her working 
until after midnight. Since then, 
radio has claimed all her time — ex- 
cept for her home and community 
activities in near-by New Jersey. 
Married to a clergyman, Florence 
has two daughters, Judith and 
Deana, now in college, and a seven- 
year-old son, Leonard. . . . Claudia 
Morgan — who has starred as Caro- 
lyn in The Right To Happiness for 
all but four of its eighteen years — 
was born crown princess of a thea- 
trical royal family. The birthplace 
was New York but, by the time 
Claudia was 6, she'd visited every 
state of the union with her touring 
parents. By 16, she'd played leading 
lady to her own father, the late 
Ralph Morgan, on Broadway, but re- 
turned to private school after the 
summer work-vacation. Following 
graduation, she got good parts in 
other plays "on her own" — including 
the last drama ever directed by 



Stars in the daytime — your CBS radio favorites 



, (Continued) 



26 






David Belasco. Since then, she's been 
in many a stage hit (her featured 
role in Shaw's "The Apple Cart," 
last season, was her thirty-ninth on 
Broadway), has been seen in most 
of the leading summer theaters and 
top TV playhouses. She's done some 
movies and a lot of radio — where 
working hours adjust better to those 
of her husband, Kenneth Loane, 
who's in real estate. . . . Virginia 
Payne has never missed a perform- 
ance, though she's been Ma Perkins 
ever since the drama began in 1933 
— in Cincinnati, Virginia's own birth- 
place. She was only a slip of a girl 
then, but she had a big, rich voice. 
All her family were doctors or 



gan in Chicago in 1933, but Julie's 
been star since it moved to New 
York in 1944). Julie was born Har- 
riet Foote in St. Louis, where she 
made her stage and radio debuts. 
She toured to the Coast with a 
Shakespearean troupe, landed a 
lead at Pasadena Playhouse — -and a 
contract in films. She's done both 
movies and plays, but is happiest at 
a Manhattan mike, just thirty miles 
from home, husband and children. 
Julie became Mrs. Charles Under- 
bill (he was then a Navy officer, is 
now a public-relations exec) the 
same year she became Helen Trent. 
. . . Don MacLaughlin was a doc- 
tor's son, back in Webster, Iowa, 




Ad 






^ J*^ V 










\ 


i ^^m\ 


s 



Virginia 
Payne 



Julie 
Stevens 



Don 
MacLaughlin 



scientists, but her mother, a talented 
amateur musician, taught her bits 
of poetry as soon as she could talk. 
Virginia made her radio debut on 
WLW, while still a student. A star 
pupil at Schuster-Martin School of 
Drama, she also earned an A.B. and 
M.A. from Cincinnati U. She studied 
music at the Chicago Conservatory, 
has been active in dramatic groups 
wherever she lived, still does off- 
Broadway and summer plays. Now 
living in New York, Virginia spent 
Ma Perkins' vacation last year doing 
a job Ma could heartily enjoy — su- 
pervising the building of a seaside 
/cottage in Maine. . . . Julie Stevens 
wouldn't desert The Romance Of 
Helen Trent for anything — except 
the birth of her babies. The first 
ane, Nancy, was born in 1951. The 
second, Sarah, was born last No- 
vember. "Subbing" for Julie during 
aiaternity leave was Virginia Clark, 
e original Helen (the drama be- 



but never thought of a medical 
career for himself — until he became 
Dr. Jim Brent in The Road Of Life. 
Acting was his goal, though he took 
a roundabout way to success. Don 
did a variety of jobs, while attend- 
ing Iowa Wesleyan, Northwestern, 
Iowa U. and Arizona U. He made his 
mike debut in Tucson, but tackled 
many another trade — including a 
stint at sea — before he found his 
niche with the networks in New 
York. Luck changed when he mar- 
ried newspaper gal Mary Prugh. 
Now he puts in a busy week, on both 
radio and TV. Weekends, he makes 
a beeline for the little Vermont town 
where he and Mary have just the 
home of which they'd dreamed for 
teenagers Douglas and Janet and 
younger son Britton. . . . Joan Tomp- 
kins never trained to be a nurse, 
though she's become very interested 
in hospital work after ten years of 
This Is Nora Drake. ■ Joan's has 



always been a fine-arts family — 
grandparents were composers and 
painters, her father and mother 
were professional singers, and the 
latter coached amateur theatricals 
after they retired to the suburbs. 
Born in New York, reared in near- 
by Mount Vernon, Joan spent sum- 
mer vacations from school working 
with the Mount Kisco Westchester 
Playhouse, has since done Broad- 
way dramas and toured as under- 
study to Katharine Hepburn. Joan's 
husband, Karl Swenson, is a well- 
known actor on the airwaves, but 
they've seldom appeared in the same 
stories. The first — and perhaps still 
the only — time they were cast as a 




Joan 
Tompkins 



Vivian 
Smolen 



married couple was on nighttime TV. 
. . . Vivian Smolen has been Our Gal 
Sunday for all but seven of its twen- 
ty years. Born in New York City, 
where her father was a violinist and 
conductor, she had a thorough train- 
ing in music, dancing and drama. 
While attending James Madison 
High, in Brooklyn, she wrote to a 
network for a children's-program 
audition, was soon so busy on radio 
she had to give up her plans for 
college. She continued her study of 
acting and singing, has now taken 
up painting, with classes at the Mu- 
seum of Modern Art. Her favorite 
pastimes are traveling and collect- 
ing art connected with the theater 
and its history. Last year, Vivian 
visited London and was shown the 
sights by none other than Alastair 
Duncan, who plays Sunday's hus- 
band, Lord Henry — London being 
the "home town" of both Alastair 
and Lord Henry Brinthrope himself! 



Heard on CBS Radio, Monday through Friday afternoons: Wendy Warren And The News, at 12 noon; Backstage Wife, 12:15; 
The Romance Of Helen Trent, 12:30; Our Gal Sunday, 12:45; This Is Nora Drake, 1; Ma Perkins, 1:15; Young Dr. Malone, 
1:30; The Road Of Life, 1:45; The Right To Happiness, 2; The Second Mrs. Burton, 2:15. (All times given here are EDT) 



27 



U! 




^_ 



Unshaken belief brought Bill Lundigan 
through darkest hours to brightest daivn 

By DORA ALBERT 



The sister at the receiving desk of the Salvatore de Mundi 
Hospital in Rome took one look at the pale, thin 
American woman who had arrived with her husband, 
the tall, lanky, good-looking American, and her 
heart was moved to pity. How pretty this one must have 
been before she became so ill, she thought. How sad 
that the professors had to send her here to die. (She always 
thought of doctors as professors.) "We'll send you 
to your room in a wheelchair," she said gently. 

With a fleeting gasp of strength, the woman protested, 
"I can walk." Her husband sat there dazed, as if the 
world were coming to an end. He didn't seem to know 
what words there were to say. {Continued on page 72) 



i 





There's humor, too, in the Lundigan home. Bill 
and Rena had many a laugh together, before 
they seriously contemplated matrimony. Today, 
they teach Stacey to enjoy the here and now. 




Three who have much to be thankful for — Bill, for one, can 
never fully express his gratitude for having his lovely wife, 
Rena, and a healthy, happy Stacey to hold close to his heart. 



Bill Lundigan is the host on the hour-long Climax!, seen 
every week over CBS-TV, Thursday, from 8:30 to 9:30 
P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Chrysler Corporation, 



29 




THE 
"DOLLY" 



Always tiny and shy — but so talented, 
too — Annette Funicello has become 
a Disney star at the age of fourteen ! 

By GORDON BUDGE 



A few years ago, the rustic two-bedroom 
house on Ben Street in North Hollywood, 
California, was known in the neighborhood simply 
as "the Funicello place." Then, thanks to Joe 
and Virginia's brood of three — Annette, Joey 
and Mike — it became known as "the fun place." 
Brown-eyed, curly-black-haired Annette, who 
danced and sang all (Continued on page 64) 



Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse Club is seen on ABC-TV, Mon. 
thru Fri., 5 to 6 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship. 



Pert and lively today, on Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse Club, 
Annette was once a truly timid little mouse — till her kinder- 
garten teacher suggested that she study a musical instrument. 




30 



At 6, she could beat the drum for 
everyone. Then her parents noticed 
that Annette had too much rhythm. 



At 10, she considered herself a "sec- 
ond mother" to younger brother 
Joey and their baby brother Mike. 



At 12, she danced the "Swan Lake' 
ballet — and set pointed toe on the 
path which led to Disney stardom. 





Letters delight her, and so do the 
sweet-scented gifts from fans who 
know that perfumes are her hobby. 




\nnet+e, Daddy Joe (who's always called her "Dolly"), Joey, mama Virginia 
jnd Mike were all slightly delirious about Daddy's birthday-gift convertible 
—but it was Mike who almost lost his head, first time they put the top down! 



The phone doesn't really turn her 
life upside down — she sees her best 
friends at the studio all day bag. 





She began as gospel singer, still 
doesn't think she's a glamour girl. 




Charlie ©rean, her fiance and manager, wrote "1492," novelty 
tune paired with "Little White Lies" on her new Bally recording. 






^fimam/St 



f ma 




Betty Johnson knows hard work hut also knows 
how to lift a tired heart — including her own 

By MARTIN COHEN 

I hate to wear shoes," says Betty Johnson. "I can't wait 
until I'm a star so I can do what I want. Now, some 
of my friends say that I embarrass them — that I'm sweet but 
corny. But I just like to be myself." Betty Johnson has 
no intention of walking down Madison Avenue in bare feet. 
But, on the other hand, she doesn't like to be told what 
to do. She doesn't want to be made into something other than 
what she is. Charlie Grean, Betty's fiance and manager, 
remembers that, about three years ago — when his office first 
began to represent Betty — they talked about sophisticating 
her with a new hairdo, a new nose, and renaming her 
to "Kim Something." Betty listened to the ideas and finally 
said, "I want to be Betty Johnson and keep my own face. 
This is what God gave me and I just want to be me." 

Betty is a five-two blondeshell with beautiful blue-green 
eyes that sputter like a fuse. She has (Continued on page 61) 



Basically a homebody, she sews most of 
her clothes and is an excellent cook, too. 




33 




the Crosby Clan 



By MAXINE ARNOLD 



The man in the uninhibited sport shirt got out of his 
convertible and looked up and down Sharp Avenue, 
casing the neighborhood for faces he'd known. 
He turned into the walk of an old-fashioned white frame 
house, whistling while he awaited the opening of a 
door which had opened for him many times. . . 

As Margaret Carroll laughingly described it later, "I had 
on an old house coat. I was down on my knees, 
scrubbing the kitchen floor, when the bell rang. I went 
to the door — and there stood Bing." 

"Hello, Margaret, what's new?" he said, picking up, 
in typical fashion, where he'd left off some fifteen 
years before. He'd just dropped by, he said. And added, 
"I wanted to see the old neighborhood." 

Sure, and Harry Lillis Crosby, Jr. — whose sentimental 
heart belies the bland blue eyes and the casual, wig- 
wagging left foot that accompanies him whenever he 
sings — had come calling on the street where he'd lived. 
Sharp Avenue, in "northside" Spokane. . . . 

The leprechauns had taken very good care of him 
since that day he'd rattled down the street in an old wreck 
of a Ford with Al Rinker — Hollywood or bust! The 
day the neighbors waved Kate Crosby's son goodbye 
and Godspeed — and speculated that he was really 
straining the luck of the Irish, if Bing thought that car 
would ever make it. It was stripped of everything — 
except the heart to get him there. . . . 

Yet all that luck had been his. And more. His was 
the voice of the people, and his the Americana success 



Continued 




Three of Washington's seven Crosby boys, in 1933: 
Bob, Bing, and Everett (low man on the totem pole) 
— who can't sing, but has his Irish wits about him. 



Angelic, Bing looked as a Gon- 
zaga High School grad— but 
the Fathers had another word! 



War time: Bing entertained 
at Camp Pendleton and found 
brother Bob in the Marines. 



34 



mm Spokane 



I 

I 



Here, on Sharp Avenue, are 
memories which will always spell 
"home" for Bing and Bob 




Proud moment — when Bob's mother and father came visiting 
him during rehearsals of Bob's early radio show, Club 15. 




-> 



Now living in the old Crosby home 
in Spokane, Mrs. Margaret Higgins 
watches "the boys" on her TV set. 



The Sharp Avenue neighborhood is 
filled with Crosby memories. Here's 
Bob, at 2, with his Easter basket. 



White now, the Crosby home was once 
brown — but always bright with music 
and laughter of frequent "clambakes." 




For the boys, Sonzaga University 
was favorite playground in runabout 
days, "alma mater" in later years. 



"St. Al's"— St. Aloysius Church- 
was "soul mother" for young and 
old of most families in community. 



For the girls, it was Holy Names 
Academy — with a big orchard in back 
which youthful Crosbys often raided. 



35 



' 




i : 



Three of Washington's seven Crosby boys, in 1933: 
Bob, Bing, and Everett (low man on the totem pole) 
—who can't sing, but has his Irish wits about him. 



the Crosby Claifrom Spokane 



By MAXINE ARNOLD 



The man in the uninhibited sport shirt got out of his 
convertible and looked up and down Sharp Avenue, 
casing the neighborhood for faces he'd known. 
He turned into the walk of an old-fashioned white frame 
house, whistling while he awaited the opening of a 
door which had opened for him many times. . . 

As Margaret Carroll laughingly described it later, "I had 
on an old house coat. I was down on my knees, 
scrubbing the kitchen floor, when the bell rang. I went 
to the door— and there stood Bing." 

"Hello, Margaret, what's new?" he said, picking up, 
in typical fashion, where he'd left off some fifteen 
years before. He'd just dropped by, he said. And added, 
"I wanted to see the old neighborhood." 

Sure, and Harry Lillis Crosby, Jr. — whose sentimental 
heart belies the bland blue eyes and the casual, wig- 
wagging left foot that accompanies him whenever he 
sings — had come calling on the street where he'd lived. 
Sharp Avenue, in "northside" Spokane. . . . 

The leprechauns had taken very good care of him 
since that day he'd rattled down the street in an old wreck 
of a Ford with Al Rinker — Hollywood or bust! The 
day the neighbors waved Kate Crosby's son goodbye 
and Godspeed — and speculated that he was really 
straining the luck of the Irish, if Bing thought that car 
would ever make it. It was stripped of everything— 
except the heart to get him there. . . . 

Yet all that luck had been his. And more. His was 
the voice of the people, and his the Americana success 



Here, on Sharp Avenue, are 
memories which will always spell 
"home" for Bing and Bob 





Angelic, Bing looked as a Gon- 
zaga High School grad— but 
the Fathers had another word! 




Proud moment — when Bob's mother and father came visiting 
him during rehearsals of Bob's early radio show, Club 15. 




The Sharp Avenue neighborhood is 
filled with Crosby memories. Here's 
Bob, at 2, with his Easter basket. 



White now, the Crosby home was once 
brown — but always bright with music 
and laughter of frequent "clambakes." 



MM 

i ] 


f 

Si 



War time: Bing entertoiW 
at Camp Pendleton and f° ur " 
brother Bob in the Man«<* 



ror the boys, Gonzaga University 
w as favorite playground in runabout 
"alma mater" in later years. 



"St. Al's" — St. Aloysius Church — 
was "soul mother" for young and 
old of most families in community. 




For the girls, it was Holy Names 
Academy — with a big orchard in back 
which youthful Crosbys often raided. 



35 



the Crosby Clan from Spokane 



(Continued) 




In 1928, Sharp Avenue was thrilled by news of Bing's 
rising fame, as he toured with Whiteman. Above, "Rhythm 
Boys" Al Rinker (left), Bing, and Harry Barris (right). 




Later, neighbors followed the success story of Bob's own 
band. Gil Rodin — playing sax in those days — is now pro- 
ducer of the Award-winning Bob Crosby Show, on CBS-TV. 



Home in triumph — sister Catherine, Mother, Dad, his 
brother Edward J. Crosby and brother Larry were there 
as Bing received honorary degree from Sonzaga in '46. 



saga of all time. Many of those along Sharp Avenue 
liked to think of the Crosbys as their own neighbor- 
hood Cinderella story: "The way it all happened — 
so suddenly . . . and the way they took it — 
so beautifully." Even the skeptics took heart from 
the fact that, however unlikely, it can happen here. 

Here — two doors down from the Carrolls', in 
an old two-storey gabled house with a wide 
front porch — was where the whole story began. 
Here Bing's future was molded, man and star. 

Here, too, was fostered the sense of family — 
the Irish wit and warmth — that was to make Bob 
Crosby at home in the living room of all the 
millions who watch his daily show on CBS-TV. 
For it was here, in this large, old-fashioned frame 
house, that George Robert Crosby made his own 
first "personal appearance?' 

The neighbors all agreed Bob was a pretty baby. 
The Bradleys' daughter, Gladys, who lived next 
door, thought him "the most beautiful baby 
ever born." She was always asking Mrs. Crosby's 
permission to take him over home with her. At 
that time, Gladys Bradley was studying the violin, 
and — though Bob Crosby was to rise to fame, 
later on, directing a Dixieland band — at the age of 
two months, he used to listen to her practicing on the 
violin and laugh and coo. . . . (Continued on page 86 ) 

The Bob Crosby Show is seen over CBS-TV, Monday through 
Friday, from 3 :30 to 4 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship. 



36 




I 



Rehearsals were on the beach. Rocky 
Graziano guested on show, Florence 
Chadwick kibitzed. Jerry's guard was 
down as Rocky jawed him for splinters. 
Paul was alert for tips from Florence. 





Jerry didn't mind being the 
low man on this totem pole. 



Stone camel at Sahara Motel was fun. 
So were Miami's lady motorcycle cops. 



Florida was fun, and Jerry Mahoney had a chance to meet the palm 
branch of his family tree. But, for Dorothy and Paul Winched, two weeks 
was long enough to be away from their family — Stacy, 3, Stephanie, 10. 




mm 



3S 



gal 



■••-.■•■■ 



■■■- 



'■-'-'.. w 




r 




the Girl Tommy Marries 



40 



Can you get a picture of the future 

Mrs. Sands— comparing the favorite 
dates of this dynamic young singer? 



By EUNICE FIELD 



A young man's mind — what a springtime world it is, 
where romantic daydreams shoot up faster than 
field flowers! And Tommy Sands, little more than 
nineteen, is no exception. He, too, has already done 
quite a lot of long wish-thinking on the subject of girls, 
romance and even marriage. 

And why not? It's a subject he hasn't been able to 
avoid since he reached his middle teens and played the 
lead in a high-school version (a very free version) of 
Irving Berlin's "Annie Get Your Gun." In that musical 
play, he sang the well-known ballad, "The Girl That 
I Marry." This is a song Tommy has been called upon 
to sing many times since. Yet, when the big question is 
put to him, he flashes the mischievous grin that has 
captivated a coast-to-coast audience and says crisply, 
"I love that song, but only as a song. The girl it de- 




Betty Moers, his "teen- 
age crush" in high school. 




Lynn Trosper, his first 
true love — when he was 4. 



scribes is exactly the kind of girl I've never dreamed 
of marrying." 

In the wake of his sensational hit on Kraft Television 
Theater's "The Singin' Idol," and with his recording of 
"Teen Age Crush" hurdling the million mark, Tommy 
Sands has won the esteem of a multitude of fans for 
keeping his head, his balance and his grasp on values 
that few men are able to grasp until they are fully 
matured. He shows this same pattern in the sensible way 
he tackles that most intimate of wish -thoughts . . . the 
girl, or type of girl, that he sees as his wife, helpmate, 
mistress of the hearth and home, and mother of the chil- 
dren he hopes to have someday. 

"Listen," he says, "I was reading about a young actor. 
He said he'd love to get a girl like his mother. That's 
great — " and now the grin forms again and a twinkle 

Continued ±. 



Molly Bee — of Tennessee Ernie Ford show — his date for 
this year's Oscar presentation (facing page). And Mrs. 
Grace Sands (below), his mother — and all-time best gal! 




Wherever he goes, fans of both sexes mob Tommy for his 
autograph — and speculate about romance. Below, the cam- 
era caught him in New York for The Steve Allen Show. 




the Girl Tommy Marries... 



(Continued) 





Hollywood party, junior style: Sunlit lawn for setting, 
ice cream for refreshments — and a serious discussion of 
youthful problems for Molly Bee, Kathy Nolan and Tommy. 



Poolside dancing, to a Sands recording: Molly says, 
"He's real cool!" Tommy says, "She's the greatest!" 
Judy Boutin and Ken Fredricks are the other dancers. 



lights the depth of his steady dark eyes — "I love my 
mother, too. I wouldn't change her for anything. She's 
definitely what I want in a mother. I'm happy to say 
she's an original. I mean she's herself at all times. And 
there isn't a bit of the fake or copycat in her make-up. 
But that's just the point. That's exactly what I want in 
a wife. Above anything else, I want to. see that quality 
of being herself. I feel uncomfortable with girls who 
mimic actresses they admire, or strut around like some 
model they saw on TV. 

"I prefer the types who aren't afraid to make a few 
rules of their own. I don't think I'd ever be happy with 
a carbon copy, no matter how beautiful or attractive she 
might be. How does Shakespeare put it? Be true to 
yourself and then you can't be false to any man. . . . 
That pretty much sums it up for me." 

Tommy may not agree that "The Girl That I Marry" 
must "wear satins and laces," but there is one phrase in 
Irving Berlin's song which does strike home: "I'm a 
sucker for perfume," Tommy admits. "A gal 'smelling of 
cologne' gets me all fussed up." But, he adds, "I'm not 
picky when it comes to clothes. I'd admire the real -life 
Annie for wearing the clothes that suit her style. I think 
she'd look ridiculous in satins and frills and bows. On 



the other hand, some girls look awful in blue jeans. To 
me, the best-dressed girl is the one who looks com- 
fortable in what she's wearing — and that goes for 
sweater and skirt or gown and mink stole. 

"Another thing," he points out, "it's not the color of 
her clothes or the fact that she's a blonde, redhead or 
brunette that counts with me. I've walked down streets 
where one type or another came by and, if I liked a 
particular girl, this is what I'd be thinking, Boy, I bet 
that one's a real sweet date. It just doesn't occur to me 
to think, What a blonde, or What a redhead! 

"Sometimes it's the smart, easy way she carries herself. 
Sometimes it's her voice, which ripples like a guitar. 
Sometimes it's the clothes, not because of the cut or 
color, but because they go so fine with the girl. I was 
eating in Frascati's on Sunset Boulevard the other day. 
A woman in a simple black dress came through the door 
and every man's eyes, including mine, jumped up to get 
a look. She was the most striking woman in the place. 

"A friend of mine," he smiles, "told me he flips over 
the tall, high-fashion type. I said to him, 'But that's just 
physical!' He jabbed me on the chin and joked, 'What 
else?' Then he went into the details. She had to have 
such and such measurements, (Continued on page 78) 



Tommy Sands and Molly Bee both sing on The Tennessee Ernie Ford Show, as seen and heard over NBC-TV, M-F, from 2:30 to 3 P.M. EDT. 



42 





Parlor tricks, garden variety: Below, Tommy shows Molly he's a 
balanced young man. Left to right, in background: Joe Maggio, 
Kathy, Judy Nichols, Ken Miller, Ken Fredricks and Judy Boutin. 



Ice cream for "Cindy," who really laps it up! 
Then, clean-up time for Molly and Tommy — "just 
good friends" — after the other guests have gone. 




the Girl Tommy Marries. 

(Continued) 




Hollywood party, junior style: Sunlit lawn for setting, 
ice cream for refreshments — and a serious discussion of 
youthful problems for Molly Bee, Kathy Nolan and Tommy. 



lights the depth of his steady dark eyes — "I love my 
mother, too. I wouldn't change her for anything. She's 
definitely what I want in a mother. I'm happy to say 
she's an original. I mean she's herself at all times. And 
there isn't a bit of the fake or copycat in her make-up. 
But that's just the point. That's exactly what I want in 
a wife. Above anything else, I want to see that quality 
of being herself. I feel uncomfortable with girls who 
mimic actresses they admire, or strut around like some 
model they saw on TV. 

"I prefer the types who aren't afraid to make a few 
rules of their own. I don't think I'd ever be happy with 
a carbon copy, no matter how beautiful or attractive she 
might be. How does Shakespeare put it? Be true to 
yourself and then you can't be false to any man. 
That pretty much sums it up for me." 

Tommy may not agree that "The Girl That I Marry" 
must "wear satins and laces," but there is one phrase in 
Irving Berlin's song which does strike home "I'm a 
sucker for perfume," Tommy admits. "A gal 'smelling of 
cologne' gets me all fussed up." But, he adds "I'm not 
picky when it comes to clothes. I'd admire the real-life 
Annie for wearing the clothes that suit her style. I think 
she'd look ridiculous in satins and frills and bows On 



Tommy Sands and Molly Bee both sing on The Tennessee Ernie Ford 



42 




Poolside dancing, to a Sands recording: Molly says, 
"He's real cool!" Tommy says, "She's the greatest!" 
Judy Boutin and Ken Fredricks are the other dancers. 



the other hand, some girls look awful in blue jeans. To 
me, the best-dressed girl is the one who looks com- 
fortable in what she's wearing— and that goes for 
sweater and skirt or gown and mink stole. 

Another thing," he points out, "it's not the color of 
her clothes or the fact that she's a blonde, redhead or 
brunette that counts with me. I've walked down streets 
where one type or another came by and, if I liked a 
particular girl, this is what I'd be thinking, Boy, I bet 
that one's a real sweet date. It just doesn't occur to roe 
totoink, What a blonde, or What a redhead! . 

Sometimes it's the smart, easy way she carries herself. 
Sometimes it's her voice, which ripples like a guitar- 
Sometimes it's the clothes, not because of the cut or 
color, but because they go so fine with the girl. I ?<* 
eating in Frascati's on Sunset Boulevard the other day. 
A woman in a simple black dress came through the door 
and every man's eyes, including mine, jumped up to get 
a look. She was the most striking woman in the pla ce ' 
t , 7 , f , rle " d ° f mine ." he smiles, "told me he flips over 
the tall high-fashion type. I said to him, -But that's jorf 
fet He jabbed me on the chin arid joked, 'Wna* 
!,,! J h" ¥ went mt ° Ae details. She had to have 
such and such m easurements. (Continued on page "*' 

Show, as seen and heard over NBC-TV, M-F, from 2:30 to 3 P 



FAMILIES are FUN 

For Bud Collyer, that includes his contestants on Beat The Clock 
and To Tell The Truth, as well as his wife and youngsters at home 




Their home has the deepest of meanings for Bud and Marian Collyer. 
For them, it's filled with memories of children growing up . . . and the 
menagerie which happy children gather around them as they grow — 
pets from poodles to parakeets, from alley cats to crested canaries! 



By MARY TEMPLE 



After years of asking questions and 
posing problems on a variety of 
TV and radio audience-participation 
programs (presently, To Tell The Truth 
and Beat The Clock, over CBS-TV), 
Bud Collyer still thinks people are ex- 
citing, interesting, wonderful. Good 
winners, and just as good losers. Will- 
ing to try their hardest in competition, 
but able to laugh at themselves and 
their failures. Rich in their sense of 
fun and capacity for enjoyment. 

It is this sense of fun, this enjoy- 
ment of things, (Continued on page 80) 

Bud Collyer emcees Beat The Clock, CBS-TV, 
Fri., 7:30 P.M. EDT, for Hazel Bishop, Inc. 
—and To Tell The Truth, CBS-TV, Tues., 9 
P.M. EDT, for Pharmaceuticals, Inc. (Geritol) 




With Marian at the piano, and choir- 
singer Cynthia stifling a giggle, Bud 
teaches Mike to play both guitar and 
banjo as relaxation from mathematics. 



44 





To the Collyers, "teenagers" are really "young adults" — Mike, Cynthia and Pat prove they are right. 
Pat's a gifted pianist, but concentrates primarily on getting a well-rounded education at college . . . 
Cynthia plans on special art training, after finishing high school . . . Mike's young heart is already set 
on a career in aero-dynamics. They can always count on warm encouragement from Bud and Marian. 



r^x 






Mr. and Mrs. is the name: Rosemary and Jack Merrell wed just four 
weeks after they met — "My family thought he was wonderful. So did I!" 







Rosemary Rice's personality blends many lives . . . 

as actress ... as physician's daughter, in 

Young Dr. Malone . . . and as Jack MerrelPs bride 




By FRANCES KISH 



A blue-eyed blonde with honey-smooth 
hair — and a glowing "brunette" kind 
of personality — is a happy young New 
Jersey housewife who loves her home, 
loves to keep it polished up, loves to cook. 
She is also an eighteen-year-old named 
Jill, daughter of Young Dr. Malone, the 
beloved physician. For years, too, she has 
been Mama's elder daughter, Katrin, now 
grown up to an early widowhood. 

This business of being three people 
hasn't been one bit upsetting to Rose- 
mary, but interesting — and fun. She's, en- 
joyed being all three. As Jill, that modem 
miss, she was at one time rebellious and 

Continued w 



Homemaking — every waking minute. "Rosie" 
waters plants as Jack reads before bedtime. 









46 





wtkaJatftiam 



>.-/ ..^ > . 




Welcome! "I love our house so much that I make a tour every morning before I leave," Rosemary admits. 

She plays drama, Jack plays golf. He hasn't tackled the air- The old-timers had a wheel for it, but a modern housewife 

waves, but she'd like to keep up with him on the fairways. still finds a husband's strong arms handy for winding yarn. 






■I 







Rosemary claims she's "only a 
fair musician," but her accor- 
dion proudly bears her name — 
and Jack gave her the elegant 
baby grand as a birthday gift. 



(Continued) 



at odds with Dr. Malone's second wife, Tracey, but now 
a warm understanding and friendship exists between 
them. As Katrin, she had a happy childhood in San 
Francisco, married, and lost her husband during World 
War I — the time period recently covered in Mama. 

As Rosemary Rice Merrell — married to management 
consultant Jack Merrell since July 3, 1954— she is the sum 
of these two other personalities added to her own. Young 
and gay and enthusiastic, like Jill. Gentle, sympathetic, 
and mature beyond her years, like Katrin. Honest, di- 
rect, frank, poised. In short, the sum of all the things 
that life has taught Rosemary Rice. 

"Rosie," as everyone now calls her (though her family 
called her "Roses" and she likes that better, if there must 
be a nickname), can thank her acting career for bringing 
romance and love into her life. An old school friend and 
her husband have always been enthusiastic fans of Rose- 




mary's, listening and watching whenever they could. 
The husband kept saying that he knew someone who 
would like Rosemary — and whom he was sure Rosemary 
would like — but he hadn't seen the man for a while and 
maybe he'd married in the meantime. Rosemary didn't 
think much about the whole thing, anyhow. She had a 
lot of beaus, and no one had ever "arranged" anything 
for her that had turned out to be romance. So she 
laughed it off. 

One day, the friends asked Rosemary for dinner at 
the country club and also invited the man — who was not 
married, had never particularly noticed Rosie on tele- 
vision or listened to her on radio, but now decided he 
must have been missing something rather special. "Jack 
doesn't like me to tell this, because it might sound a 
little foolish," Rosemary confesses, "but we both fell in 
love that fast and were married (Continued on page 70) 






48 



Rosemary Rice is Jill Malone in Young Dr. Malone. heard on CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, 1 :30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship. 





Above, at the snack bar, Rosemary fills the 
"orders" of Mr. and Mrs. Robert T. Whelan, 
little Carol Pfister and Linda Whelan. Rosie 
and Jack built three "fun rooms" in basement. 



Ping-pong club meets downstairs, too, as the Merrells take on the Whelans 
for a game, with Barbara Ann Whelan as referee. There's a third basement 
room for barbecues, but in fine weather they prefer eating outdoors — left 
to right, Cal Wenke, Barbara Ann, the Whelans, the Merrells, and Linda. 









Above, at the snack bar, Rosemary fills the 
"orders" of Mr. and Mrs. Robert T. Whelan, 
ittle Carol Pfister and Linda Whelan. Rosie 
and Jack built three "fun rooms" in basement. 



Ping-pong club meets downstairs, too, as the Merrells take on the Whelans 
for a game, with Barbara Ann Whelan as referee. There's a third basement 
room for barbecues, but in fine weather they prefer eating outdoors — left 
to right, Cal Wenke, Barbara Ann, the Whelans, the Merrells, and Linda. 



(Continued) 



at odds with Dr. Malone's second wife, Tracey, but now 
a warm understanding and friendship exists between 
them. As Katrin, she had a happy childhood in San 
Francisco, married, and lost her husband during World 
War I — the time period recently covered in Mama. 

As Rosemary Rice Merrell — married to management 
consultant Jack Merrell since July 3, 1954— she is the sum 
of these two other personalities added to her own. Young 
and gay and enthusiastic, like Jill. Gentle, sympathetic, 
and mature beyond her years, like Katrin. Honest, di- 
rect, frank, poised. In short, the sum of all the things 
that life has taught Rosemary Rice. 

"Rosie," as everyone now calls her (though her family 
called her "Roses" and she likes that better, if there must 
be a nickname), can thank her acting career for bringing 
romance and love into her life. An old school friend and 
her husband have always been enthusiastic fans of Rose- 



mary's, listening and watching whenever they could. 
The husband kept saying that he knew someone who 
would like Rosemary — and whom he was sure Rosemary 
would like— but he hadn't seen the man for a while and 
maybe he'd married in the meantime. Rosemary didnt 
think much about the whole thing, anyhow. She had a 
lot of beaus, and no one had ever "arranged" anything 
for her that had turned out to be romance. So she 
laughed it off. 

One day, the friends asked Rosemary for dinner at 
the country club and also invited the man— who was not 
married, had never particularly noticed Rosie on tele- 
vision or listened to her on radio, but now decided be 
must have been missing something rather special. "JacK 
doesn't like me to tell this, because it might sound a 
ittle foolish," Rosemary confesses, "but we both fell* 
love that fast and were married (Continued on po9 e 70 ' 



48 



Rosemary Rice is Jill Malone in Youne Dr. Malone \\pnrA ™ pr« d j- \x . , ■„ 

g "lone, heard on CBS Rad.o, Monday through Friday, 1 :30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship 



X 




HI LI-BILLY HERO 




OfF-beat role in "A Face in the 
Crowd" finds Andy in jail — where 
Patricia Neal discovers his talent. 



Pat, a roving radio reporter, 
gives Andy a boost toward fame 
— and a power which he misuses. 



Fun between takes — for Jeff Best 
(with the guitar), Harry Stradling, 
director Elia Kazan, Andy and Pat. 



Andy Griffith can never be just "a 
face in the crowd." It's right on 
the records that everyone's got time 
for Andy, his songs and his sayings 

By FREDDA BALLING 



At first sight, Andy Griffith would appear to be con- 
i stituted like a good gelatine dessert — all one color 
and clear. Investigation, however, will disclose that his 
personality pattern is one of shades and shadows, that 
his flavor is various, and that contradiction is probably 
his most obvious component. 

He looks like an ex-blocking back, yet he has never 
played football — though he did try basketball, without 
inspiring the rules committee to raise the hoop or di- 
minish its circumference. . . . He (Continued on page 68) 




50 



Now it's the Hollywood Hills for 
Andy and his Barbara — the "Bob- 
by" whose name once confused him! 



Sea dream: "Always wanted a 
boat," says Andy. "Finally, got 
one — an eighteen-foot dinghy." 




Above, Barbara and Andy at home. 
Facing page, Barbara visits Andy 
and Pat Neal on Warner Bros. lot. 




I 



■HHHHMMHHMM| 




YEARS WITH JERRY 



\ 




^S^-' 



Lucky, heart-filling years !• — 
though being married to a comedian 
isn't always a laughing matter 




Joining Jerry on tour, I try to make a home for him, 
whether in backstage dressing rooms or hotels. On the 
recent New York stay, we even had baby Scotty with us. 





Playing the Palace, Jerry was right with his audience — they loved him! But cooling off after was more of a problem. 



By PATTI LEWIS 

Next October, Jerry and I will have been married 
thirteen years. There have been times, I'll 
admit, when it has seemed much, much longer 
than a mere baker's dozen. But most of the time, 
when I think back, my reaction is, "Could it have been 
only thirteen years ago?" When you're happy, 
time goes fast. 

But, having been happy during those thirteen 
years doesn't mean I've led a tranquil, peaceful, well- 
ordered existence. Far from it. In fact, most of the 
time it's been pretty frantic. But happy-frantic 
and funny-frantic, and only rarely, now and then, 
hes it been sad-frantic or mad-frantic. 

There have been times, for instance, when I've been 
up in the air. Quite literally, that is. I've logged 
more flying time than Jerry has, in the last thirteen 
years. There are moments now and then, after I 
get on a) plane, when I have to stop and think 
whether^ Tm headed for New (Continued on page 76) 



The Jerry Lewis Show, seen on NBC-TV, Saturday, June 8, from 9 
to 10 P.M. EDT, is being telecast in color and black-and-white. 



At New York's Essex House, we had an apartment with a 
tiny kitchen. Jerry had his favorite after-show snacks— 
and Scofty had his favorite toys with him (below, right). 




Back in the Pacific Palisades, we can relax and Behave 
Like People. Our boys, left to right, are Gary — who looks 
so much like Jerry; Ronnie-the "brain"; Scotty-the baby. 





»m 



r 



r 



md 



British tour began in London's Dominion Theater, as 3,000 fans shouted: "We 
want Bill!" — and then the curtain rose on Haley, his guitar, and His Comets. 




William Haley and Mrs. Haley — as listed 
by dignified Cunard Line — looked forward 
to a sunny though brief vacation on board 
the Queen Elisabeth, sailing for England. 



fti ROCK ROUS 



It was three cheers and a skyrocket 

for Bill Haley and His Comets 

as they spread the happy beat abroad 

By HELEN BOLSTAD 



Australians exclaimed, "Fantabulous!" A London news- 
i paper bannered, "All Haley Let Loose!" It was fun to watch 
the young people of the world prove the prophets of doom all 
wrong. When rock 'n' roll first burst on the scene as the freshest — 
and most controversial — music in thirty-five years, these 
prophets thundered that it was the drum-beat of delinquency. 
None of them foresaw that, this year, it would turn into one of 
America's most potent goodwill-builders — a means of communi- 
cation and a bond of unity between teenagers of many lands. 

Suitably, the first to carry it abroad were Bill Haley and His 
Comets, the little crew from Chester, Pennsylvania, who had 
also been the first to define the happy big beat in the United 
States. During the first seventy-two days of 1957, they whizzed 
across 42,638 miles. They were on three (Continued on page 82) 



54 



I 



mf.Tt * 









V. ft 



v 



Nature's own typhoons and earthquakes couldn't top The Comets' welcome at 
the dock in Southampton (above) or on special train to London (below, left). 



WUNB the WO RIO 





Above, at London's Waterloo Station, 
Sylvia Wakefield, 17, and Diane Thompson, 
15, proudly displayed hand-lettered jeans 
they'd spent all the night e.mbroidering. 



55 



MM^^^ 






i<J2Sj 

(FYS 



British tour began in London's Dominion Theater, as 3,000 fans shouted: "We 
want Bill!" — and then the curtain rose on Haley, his guitar, and His Comets. 



iPF^fc V 






|$?fiW 



Nature's own typhoons and earthquakes couldn't top The Comets' welcome at 
the dock in Southampton (above) or on special train to London (below, left). 




William Haley and Mrs. Haley — as listed 
by dignified Cunard Line — looked forward 
to a sunny though brief vacation on board 
the Queen Elizabeth, sailing for England. 



54 



fie ROM ROM 



It was three cheers and a skyrocket 

for Bill Haley and His Comets 

as they spread the happy beat abroad 

By HELEN BOLSTAD 

A ustra lians exclaimed, "Fantabulous!" A London news- 
r\ paper bannered, "All Haley Let Loose!" It was fun to watch 

wrn ™ U ™f e0ple ,°* ^ he world P rove the prophets of doom all 
wrong. When rock V roll first burst on the scene as the freshest- 
r^n^T* .u e0 ", tr0V f r ^ al - music *" thirty-five years, these 
NonP oM^ Un f ered th ^ lt was the drum-beat of delinquency. 
Arnlriol'. T !° re ? W * at ' ihis y ear - it would turn into one of. 
clunn »^ k P J ° te , nt g ° d will-builders-a means of communi- 

SuLw„ tv,^ ? £ Unity b ^ween teenagers of many lands. 
Cometf fL rt, firSt t0 ?"" H abroad were Bil1 Hale y and J H ' S 
abbl k^t t c ? w J fr 5 ,m Chester, Pennsylvania, who had 
States S,rwfl rSt fi t0 . define the happy big beat in the United 
across '^8 g m he fi "t seventy-two days of 1957, they whizzed 
across 42,638 rmles. They were on three (Continued on page 82) 



WW the WORM 





Above, at London's Waterloo Station, 
Sylvia Wakefield, 17, and Diane Thompson. 
15, proudly displayed hand-lettered jeans 
they'd spent all the night embroidering. 



55 




When she believes in you, you kinda start believing in yourself 

It isn't just that Ma understands, even when you don't say right out what's 
troubling you. She helps too. Not by telling you what to do. More by see- 
ing the good in you when you can hardly see it yourself. Like Esther Hunter 
said to Fay the other day, "Why, when Ma believes in you, you kinda 
start believing in yourself." Everybody in town feels that way about Ma 
Perkins. You would too if you met her. And you can meet her. You can 
get the whole story — even while you work — when you listen to day- 
time radio. Hear MA PERKINS on the CBS RADIO NETWORK. 

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time. 





Special beachtime good- 
grooming rules protect Toni 
Campbell's young beauty 
through a month of sun-days 

By HARRIET SEGMAN 



Toni Campbell, not yet 13, who decorates 
the summer scene above, is better known in 
the demure costume she wears at right, as 
Mama's beloved younger daughter, Dagmar. 




Under the Sun 



B 



Between Sunbonnet Sue, who never shows the 
sun her face, and Lila Lobstertint, who doesn't 
know when to come in out of those burning rays, 
there's a happy medium in under-the-sun beauty 
care. TV actress Toni Campbell, who's as smart as 
she's pretty, makes the bright summer air a friend 
of her good looks. The first essential for Toni's 
young skin, as for any skin-under-the-sun, is an 
invisible parasol — a suntan lotion or cream to 
slather on before sunning and re-apply every two 
hours and after each swim, with special care at 
ankles, knees, thighs, shoulders, nose, forehead. 
Long sun-sessions dry even well-protected skin, so 
Toni times her sunbaths, then moves into the shade, 
or creates her own oasis under a big hat and long- 
sleeved shirt. Before sunning, she massages hair 
cream into scalp and hair, treats nails and cuticle 



of fingers and toes with nail oil, pats cream around 
her eyes to prevent "crinkles." Sunglasses, part of 
her program, belong in every bag of summer tricks 
- — have lenses ground to prescription if your own 
sight keeps you from spotting a tall, bronzed life- 
guard at twenty paces. Toni wears soft, non-drying 
lipstick and light pink polish, uses hair-spray for 
neatness. In her sun-kit she carries skin lotion, 
cotton balls, and fresh-scented spray cologne. She 
shampoos hair as soon as possible after swimming, 
to remove salt and chlorine, restores luster with 
creme rinse or hairdressings, quick-sets with hair- 
spray. Toni's careful of her posture, too, and her tips 
can help every girl who owns a bathing suit — tuck 
your sitting-spot 'way under, pull tummy in flat, 
don't collapse on your hips. Sit up, not down, like 
the lady you are and the sun-beauty you can be. 



57 



DEEJAY ON 
THE KEYS 




It takes such lovely stars as Lu Ann Simms and Peggy 
King to lure Sandy away from "Simo," his talking piano. 




Sandy answered a record request from Eleanor. Now, 
he's speech teacher to Po Po — and kitchen apprentice. 



58 





Sandy Singer, WTCN's piano and platter 
man, answered a very special request 



Talk and a turntable are standard equipment for a 
deejay. To this, Sandy Singer adds eighty-eight 
keys and bills himself as "the Northwest's only piano- 
playing disc jockey." The Sandy Singer Show is heard 
on Station WTCN in Minneapolis-St. Paul each 
weekday from noon to 12:30, from 2 to 5 P.M. and from 
6:15 to 7 P.M. It's back again on Saturday from 
8 A.M. to noon and may soon be visible on WTCN-TV. 
Between the platters and the patter, Sandy wandei - s 
over to his ever-ready Steinway to introduce records 
with a flourish of the keys or, sometimes, to play right 
along with them. Or Sandy may join in with a chorus 
on the organ as well. On records, the music multiplies 
and Sandy has produced discs with up to six pianos, 
a la Les Paul. ... "I never tire of the letters and 
phone calls and requests," says Sandy. "I love my job 
and everything about it." Actually, Sandy pays 
perhaps more attention to requests than most deejays — 
and well he might. While launching his deejay 
career on a Peoria station, he met Eleanor Drazin 
at a party. Three days later, Sandy received 
a letter from her asking him to play the record, "I 
Want To Be Loved." Taking the request literally, Sandy 
phoned for a date, and the duo of music lovers have 
been happily married now for six years. . . . From 
Peoria, Sandy went to Augusta, Georgia, where he 
served both Uncle Sam and the listeners to Station 
WBBQ. Thence to KCRG in Cedar Rapids and, in 1956, 
to WTCN. Sandy and Eleanor share a modern 
apartment in South Minneapolis, near Lake Calhoun, 
with Po Po, a parakeet they've trained to recite 
the station call letters. Tickings and chimings come from 
the many unusual clocks the Singers are collecting 
for that future home-of-their-own. Bowling, 
swimming, golf, horseback riding and flying are Sandy's 
hobbies. But Eleanor refuses to fly with him until 
she learns how herself, because, as Sandy explains, 
"she wants to be a back-seat flyer." ... If Sandy ever 
decides to fly home, it'll be to Chicago, where his 
mother was a vocalist for CBS and where Sandy began 
his piano lessons at age five. A year later, 
he'd narrowed his choice for the future down to either 
doctoring or radio. By the time he was eleven, radio 
had won out and Sandy was a pro on radio and TV. 
He's been music to Midwestern ears ever since. 



THE PERSONAL TOUCH 



Moe Milliken's easygoing approach as 
weatherman or talent emcee turns 
KHOL and KHPL viewers into friends 




present 

WEATHER 

JtW-A 




Before he becomes evening weatherman, he's Cousin Moe. 
With Uncle Jerry, he meets junior talent on Little Rascals. 




Moe's workday starts after lunch with Jean, Stevie and Larry. 
But an evening schedule means a late-hour finish for Moe, too. 



The open secret to success in television is to remember 
that you're a guest in somebody's living room — and 
not a speaker from the rostrum at Madison Square Gar- 
den. It's a "secret" nobody ever had to whisper to 
Marlyn "Moe" Milliken. He knew it instinctively and 
practices it for two television areas, that of KHOL-TV in 
Kearney, Nebraska, and its "satellite," KHPL-TV in 
Hayes Center. Though he speaks to thousands of people 
each day, Moe's is a relaxed and genial intimacy of 
talking to a gathering of just a few friends. . . . Heard 
each evening at 6 and 10 as weatherman for Channels 6 
and 13, he is constantly bombarded with the request, 
"When you gonna get us some rain, Moe?" But, drought 
or deluge, his viewers prove their loyalty each year in 
the annual Labor Day weather-guessing contest. Last 
fall, 6,323 viewers competed. Sunday evenings at 8:30, 
Moe is at the helm of Talent Show, with five contestants 
competing for prizes and for the eventual six-week finals 
and elimination programs. Each weekday evening at 5, 
he becomes Cousin Moe and joins Uncle Jerry Granger 
in cavorting with puppets Ozzie, Mr. Scratch and Hoiman 
the hippopotamus on Little Rascals. Add to this his chores 



as production manager of KHOL-TV and here is a busy 
man, indeed, carrying a lot of responsibility for someone 
who's just twenty-five years old. . . . Growing up in 
Naponee, a small community within the KHOL-TV area, 
he acquired his present nickname of Moe while in high 
school — but he's not saying how. Still, it stuck with him 
through the University of Nebraska and Kearney State 
Teachers College, where the program director of KGFW 
spotted Moe in a radio speech class and launched him 
on a broadcasting career. . . . Moe and his wife Jean met 
while both were at college. Friends say their sons look 
like Moe, but he insists that Larry, 3, and Stevie, 2, take 
after their mother. Moe and the boys are "outdoor men," 
and, on Moe's days off, they like to take camping trips. 
Moe couldn't be happier at Larry's early choice of a 
career as a football and basketball player. Stevie, who 
hasn't yet made up his mind about the future, was born 
shortly after Moe joined KHOL-TV. Even after so brief 
a time, viewers celebrated the event with 1,500 letters and 
gifts, including a number of pink, baby-girl items. Asked 
about these unused feminine garments, Moe just grins 
and says "We're saving them for possible future use." 



5fl 



THE RECORD PLAYERS 



Each month, four of your favorite 
disc jockeys alternate this space with 
views and interviews. This spin around, 
it's Josh Brady of WBBM in Chicago 




This singing Cinderella, Cathy 
Carr, lives in an "Ivory Tower." 



NO F>UIVIF>KJNS, 




By JOSH BRADY 




It was one of those April days when a 
guy longed for a little conversation, 
and I guess we all have our favorite 
haunts where we can count on running 
into a good listener, if nothing else. 
Anyhow, this particular day, the roof 
fell in. 

I'm about halfway through my second 
cup of coffee when I am joined by the 
writing team of Jack Fulton and Lois 
Steel, composers of such gems as 
"Until," "If You Were But a Dream," 
"Wanted" and "Ivory Tower." After 
inquiring why they look a little tired, 
I ask when they are coming up with 
another hit. I get an immediate answer 
to both questions in one breath. Up 
late last night with Cathy Carr, discing 
their latest composing effort "Speak for 
Yourself, John" . . . And they are quick 
to add that it looks like another "Ivory 
Tower" . . . And, if I stick around, Cathy 
will be dropping by any minute. So I 
say, sez I, "Don't nobody move" — the 
customary Brady byline when some- 
thing is cooking. I had asked a leading 
question, and composers, song pluggers, 
distributors, publishers and record 
companies love them. 

About then we are visited by as like- 
able a guy as you'll find, singing star 
Dick Noel, who also records on the 
Fraternity label with Cathy. And right 
on his heels is publisher's representa- 
tive Al Beilin — who reaches for the 
glass bowl full of sugar lumps, throws 
it over his right shoulder with his right 
hand and catches it behind his back 
with his left. Some day he'll miss, and 
I want to be there. 



It is then that we move to the big 
round table, and in walks our Cin- 
derella girl, Cathy Carr. If I were al- 
lowed two words to describe her I 
would say sweet and petite. But she's 
more than that. Pretty, too . . . blond 
hair, a twinkle in her eyes and I guess 
she'd probably wear a small-size glass 
slipper. 

With a little quizzing on my part, 
the Cathy Carr story began to unfold. 
Cathy calls the Bronx, New York, 
home. It was there that this little Cin- 
derella graduated from high school and 
started a singing career that began with 
the little bands, and some of the big 
ones, including Sammy Kaye. She had 
a couple of record releases, but nothing 
seemed to happen. She signed with 
GA.C. and was booked into clubs and 
began to get the real feel of what the 
audience wanted her to do. Cathy 
styled her singing accordingly. Indeed, 
she became a real song stylist, as op- 
posed to the out-and-out commercial 
bandstand songstress. 

And how did she come to the atten- 
tion of Harry Carlson, president of 
Fraternity Records, who launched her 
on her real recording career and to 
whom she is so grateful? Well, it was 
Harry's friend, Frank Hanshaw, who 
discovered Cathy at a club in Detroit 
and sent her to Cincinnati to hear 
Fraternity's offer. Oh, yes, there were 
record releases with Fraternity that did 
very little to set our Cinderella's car- 
riage in motion. But then it came, in 
early '56 ... a song that was to project 
Cathy to heights far exceeding that of 



the Alabaster Tower she was to sing 
about — that "Ivory Tower." 

I was very close to that song from the 
day the composers — Jack Fulton and 
Lois Steel — first played the demonstra- 
tion record for me. I saw record com- 
panies turn them down time after time, 
because they felt the song just didn't 
have it. But the keen ears of Harry 
Carlson perked up when he heard it, 
and he said, "This is for Cathy." 

You know the rest . . . the song went 
right up the ladder on the Hit Parade. 
It became Number One in Canada and 
Australia and Cathy was on her way. 
If you took the top dozen records of 
1956, you would find Cathy Carr's 
"Ivory Tower" among them. The 
months to follow saw Cathy on The 
Perry Como Show, The Lawrence Welk 
Show and The Cross Canada Hit 
Parade, among others. 

About this time, Cathy sipped the last 
of her coffee and reached into her 
purse for some airline tickets to double- 
check her time of departure. When I 
asked where she was going, she said, 
in excited tones, "Didn't you know, 
Josh . . . I'm going on a tour with Stan 
Kenton, Guy Mitchell and Lionel 
Hampton and we're leaving for Aus- 
tralia this afternoon." 

And as she left, you couldn't help but 
say to yourself: I do hope her latest, 
"Speak for Yourself, John," is another 
"Ivory Tower." She deserves it. I'm 
sure the hands of time will move slowly 
toward the hour of midnight for our 
little, modern-day Cinderella, Cathy 
Carr. 



60 



Josh Brady is heard on WBBM on weekdays at 8:45 A.M. and at 11:15 A.M. and on Saturday and Sunday from 9:30 A.M. to noon. 



Sing and Be Happy 

(Continued from page 33) 
lovely lips, too, and through these lips 
passes one of the finest voices of the day. 
During the past season, this voice made 
her a frequent guest on such top network 
shows as Ed Sullivan's and George Gobel's. 
For two years, it kept her on Don Mc- 
Neill's Breakfast Club, and she could have 
stayed on forever. When Betty sings a 
love song, her voice breezes right up the 
nape of your neck. On a rhythm number, 
she belts wide and handsome. And yet 
she isn't a pop singer by choice. 

"I never wanted to be an entertainer or 
pop singer," Betty says. "My ambition, 
right up to the time I was nineteen, was 
to sing religious music. But down South, 
where I lived, a woman can't travel and 
sing by herself. On my first trip to New 
York as a soloist, I auditioned with hymns 
for six weeks. No one even threw me 
a bone." 

But pretty, pert Betty is no softie. She 
is used to handicaps, road-blocks, insuffi- 
cient funds and plain bad luck. She wasn't 
born with a silver spoon in her mouth and 
nothing has been presented to her on a 
silver platter. As young as she is — twenty- 
five, this past March — her career has been 
as colorful as an entertainer's twice her 
age, for Betty began singing when she 
was four years old. 

In those days, dressed in a gingham 
dress and white stockings, she sang with 
her family, The Johnson Singers, at 
churches, evangelical meetings, weddings, 
funerals, country fairs and fish fries and 
barbecues. The Johnsons were poor ten- 
ant farmers who sang for the love of sing- 
ing. When the crops were in, Jesse Deverin 
Johnson hitched his homemade trailer to 
a tired model-A Ford and the family trav- 
eled and sang. 

"We worked for nothing," Betty says 
frankly, "but I never felt poor, because 
Daddy never asked for anything. We might 
be hundreds of miles from home, and it 
was obvious that we had no money. We 
would be there to sing at an evangelical 
meeting and the preacher would collect 
money so that we could get home. He 
would usually put the money in an en- 
velope before he gave it to Daddy. Well, 
Daddy would save the envelope for an 
emergency. And nearly every time, just 
as he got the envelope out to buy some- 
thing we simply had to have — like gaso- 
line or a loaf of bread — something would 
happen. We'd stop at a gas station and 
start to sing, and someone would donate 
the gas and someone else would invite us 
in for dinner. Poor people know how to 
take care of one another. And so we'd get 
home with the envelope unopened. At 
home, we'd have a big ceremony before 
we mailed back the money, although 
sometimes we had to borrow a few cents 
for postage stamps." 

Betty was born on a farm near Cat 
Square, North Carolina. Cat Square was 
more of a general store than a town. She 
grew up in another area known as Possum 
Walk and later went to high school at 
Paws Creek. "We didn't have a home of 
our own," she says. "As sharecroppers, we 
moved from one farm to another and we 
lived in log cabins. And Daddy really 
loved real log cabins. There was usually 
one big room on the ground. This was 
kitchen and living room, as well as bed- 
room for my parents. The kids slept in 
the room overhead, kind of an attic, and 
we got up there by ladder. But the cabin 
was our castle and Mother kept it as 
neat as the most beautiful mansion." 

Betty's mother is a petite, pretty woman 
and Betty resembles her. Betty has no 
sisters. Her father and three brothers are 



DO ANY OF THESE 

PROBLEMS 

GET YOU DOWN? 



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about my Past 

• How to Cope with a Jeal- 
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• Understanding Your In-laws 

• Meeting the Demands of 
Growing Older 

• Is Artificial Insemination the 
Answer for Childlessness? 



• Can a Divorcee Start Anew? 

• Should We Break Off or 
Should We Marry? 

• How Should Teenagers 
Handle Love? 

• How Can We Help Our 
Children? 

• Getting a Part-time or a 
Full-time Job 



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CITY STATE. 



61 



all tall, handsome men. Her older brother 
Ken, a graduate of Duke University's 
Divinity School, is a minister at the First 
Methodist Church in Ashboro, North Caro- 
lina. Betty's twin brothers, Jimmy and 
Bobby, are students at Chapel Hill. Betty 
herself, who is continuing her academic 
studies by extension at Northwestern Uni- 
versity, got in two years of resident study 
at Queens College at Charlotte, North 
Carolina. 

"I don't know how we did those things," 
she says. "I remember Daddy said to us, 
'You've got to forget about going to col- 
lege. We have no money.' He loved us 
and wanted us to have the best, but he 
told us the literal truth. We had no money. 
We couldn't possibly afford college — but 
we did. Of course, we worked hard. I had 
as many as five jobs at a time, and it was 
worth it. I loved the school." 

Betty's constant companions, until she 
went to college, were her three brothers 
and their male friends. With them she 
swam, caught rats, rode horses. She was 
a rough-and-tumble tomboy. "I had to be. 
If I'd ever complained to my parents about 
what the boys did to me, I wouldn't have 
had anyone to play with. I remember how 
they taught me to swim. They just pitched 
me into a pond and it was sink or swim. 
And they taught me to ride by tying me 
to a saddle. The horse took off through 
some trees and I was nearly broken in 
half by low limbs." When Betty went to 
college, she studied home economics and 
made good grades, although she had a hard 
time keeping her mind on her studies. "It 
wasn't that I was thinking about boys. To 
the contrary, I had been so starved for 
female companionship that I just couldn't 
stop talking and listening to my new 
friends. It was just so wonderful to hear 
girl-talk." 

Betty always sang. Even while in col- 
lege she was on two radio programs out 
of Charlotte. One program was her own 
and the other was with the Family. Until 
1950, The Johnson Family was a CBS net- 
work feature on the program, Carolina 
Calling, originating from Station WBT in 
Charlotte. "But radio or evangelical meet- 
ings," says Betty, "it was all the same. 
All fun. From the time I was four, we 
went as a family to prayer meetings. We 
sang until midnight or into the early 
morning. It wasn't work. Work was pick- 
ing cotton during the day and often we 
were all in the field together. For that, 
we were paid. But we sang because people 
wanted to hear us, and it's wonderful be- 
ing able to sing that way. People love you 
for what you are doing and the happiness 
it gives them. We never thought of our- 
selves as entertainers." 

The Johnsons became nationally famous 
and started recording for Columbia Rec- 
ords. It was at one of these sessions that 
Percy Faith put the bug in Betty's ear 
about being a soloist. "He came into the 
studio to talk with us and said, 'Betty, I 
think you ought to be on your own. If 
you ever decide to do something about it, 
call me up.' Well, that was in 1950. Next 
year, I decided I had to do something for 
my parents. Mother and Dad were farm- 
ing, but also looking to singing for part 
of their income. Well, in 1951, we were 
touring Veterans' Hospitals and I remem- 
ber we were in Parkersburg, West Vir- 
ginia, when I took a good look at Daddy 
and Mom. They looked tired. The travel- 
ing was getting to be too much for them. 
I had a long talk with them and said that 
I was going up to New York and sing 
T my way into fame and fortune and then 
V take care of them. They took the practical 
B attitude and told me I'd just knock my 
brains out. But up I went in October." 

Betty stuck it out for six weeks on forty 
62 



dollars. She remembers: "I was so miser- 
able and lonely. I took to baby-sitting — 
and not just for the money, but because I 
was so homesick and, that way, I'd get 
into someone's home. And I was always 
hungry. Once in a while, Percy Faith 
would take me out and feed me and try 
to pep me up. I went around auditioning 
and singing hymns. No one would give me 
the toss of his hat. I gave up and went 
home. Spring of the following year, I 
went North again. This time I took Percy's 
advice and auditioned with a popular 
song. It was 'Tenderly.' I tried for Arthur 
Godfrey's Talent Scouts and got on the 
show and won. That was a break. That 
got me a job at the Copacabana at one 
hundred and fifty dollars a week for six 
weeks. I sent home a hundred a week and 
lived on what was left after tax, social se- 
curity deductions, et cetera. Well, everyone 
was wonderful to me at the Copa. I wasn't 
the star in the show, by any means. I sang 
in the opening production number — but 
sang well enough, I guess, for they 
wanted me to stay another six weeks. 
But I wasn't feeling too well, and I went 
back home again." 

That winter, Betty stayed home, singing 
and recording with the family. But, in 
March of 1953, she was back in Manhattan 
to audition for CBS and, this time, got a 
contract to do a regular network pro- 
gram. She sang with Alfredo Antonini's 
orchestra on the show, On A Sunday 
Afternoon. "Antonini thought I could 
read music," she recalls, "but I've never 
had a music lesson. The only kind of 
accompaniment I was used to working 
with was a guitar and, naturally, I felt 
friendly toward guitar players. So I told 
Antonini's guitarist about my predicament 
and he used to keep an eye on me and 
would give me a nod when I was to come 
in. Of course, after that, I had no trouble." 

She sang on the CBS Radio show, There's 
Music In The Air, and was also a featured 
singer on Galen Drake's program. Then 
the Borden Company hired her as the 
"Borden Girl" for all of their commercials. 
By then it was 1954, and it was in June 
of that year that she walked into the 
Trinity Music Company and met Charlie 
Grean and Joe Csida. 

Charlie Grean's background differs from 
Betty's. He was raised in Mount Vernon, 
New York. That's a suburb of New York 
City, and it would not make sense to call 
anyone raised in Mount Vernon a hill- 
billy. Charlie's father, a retired designer, 
is an artist. Charlie has two older brothers 
who are lawyers and a younger brother 
who is a minister. Charlie was no back- 
woodsman, but Betty says, "I took to 
him right away because I thought he was 
a real hillbilly. It was the way he talked 
to me, as if he understood me. He didn't 
make me feel ashamed of my background. 
There is something that Charlie has in 
common with country people. I know 
that, where I come from, my friends think 
he's one of them — unless they listen too 
closely to his Yankee accent." 

Charlie, who plays bass, had fiddled 
with some "country" groups. He had 
worked five years at Victor Records and 
had spent time in the country-music 
division before he moved into the pop 
department. Today, Charlie and Joe Csida, 
former editor of Billboard, are partners in 
Trinity Music. They publish sheet music 
and manage such artists as Eddy Arnold, 
Jim Lowe, Norm Leyden, Kathy Godfrey 
— and Betty Johnson. On the side, Charlie 
Grean is also a songwriter. He penned 
Betty's hit, "I Dreamed." He wrote the 
Dinah Shore best-seller, "Sweet Violets," 
and the novelty hit of 1950, "The Thing." 

"You might say Betty came into our 
office cold," Charlie says. "I didn't know 
her. Jim Leyden, Norm's brother, sent 



her in, saying that she was looking for 
management. And I was about an hour 
late for my appointment with her. I 
couldn't help it — but, when I realize now 
that I might have missed her, it gives me 
kind of a shock. Anyway, she was for- 
giving about my late entrance. I talked to 
her and liked her attitude. She was open 
and frank. I listened to her recording and 
she reminded me of Rosemary Clooney or 
Doris Day." 

Charlie went into his partner's office. 
"I told Joe I wanted him to talk to this 
girl and tell me if he liked her. So Joe 
sat a spell with her, and I met him out- 
side the office and he said, 'I like her. She's 
great. Are you sure she can sing?' I told 
him that I was, went back into my office, 
and told Betty we wanted to sign her. She 
said, 'Sure. In a few days.' Then she went 
out and had us investigated." 

Betty grins as he tells this story. "Well," 
she chuckles, "I knew you had a lot of 
friends in the business, but I wanted to 
see if you knew how to work as hard as I 
did and whether you had talent." 

(^harlie got to work on Betty's career 
immediately. She was under contract to 
Bell Records, and then made three re- 
leases for RCA Victor. For Bell, she cut 
every top tune that came along, which 
meant a lot of good experience, as well as 
working with master arranger Sy Oliver. 
At RCA, she was one of about seventeen 
young girls on the list, so Charlie asked 
Victor to release her from contract. They 
did, and Charlie got her working with 
Bally Records. The first record that made 
any real money for Betty was the disc, 
"Please Tell Me Why," for Bally. 

"She came to me then," Charlie recalls, 
"and asked how much money she'd made 
on that record after costs. I figured it out 
for her, then she said, 'Well, I'm going to 
buy myself something for the first time.' 
She went out and bought a diamond soli- 
taire.' In the ring band, she inscribed the 
tune title and her birthday. She explained, 
"This will be for my first-born girl.' " 

Betty is no spendthrift. Neither she nor 
her brothers have drawn heavily on their 
parents, and they have always contributed 
to the family kitty. Even the twins at col- 
lege do not take financial assistance from 
their parents — although the mink coat Bet- 
ty hasn't bought has helped meet their 
tuition. During the two years Betty worked 
with Don McNeill, she earned a very good 
salary, but she still wasn't extravagant. 
She had a modest apartment in Chicago's 
Loop that she decorated herself. 

"I have a lot of experience in sewing 
and just doing for myself," she explains. 
"When I was a child, I won the state 4-H 
Club prizes for my string beans and for 
my own clothes that I'd made, and for 
canning beets and chow-chow. The first 
important thing I ever bought myself was 
a portable sewing machine. That was in 
college, and I've been making my own 
clothes continuously. So — fixing up the 
apartment was a lot of fun. It was a 
charming place. It was over a coffee shop 
and you had to walk through the shop to 
get to my apartment." 

"I thought it looked dull and depress- 
ing when we first looked at it," Charlie 
admits, "but Betty didn't see it that way. 
She was already seeing in her mind's 
eye what she would do to it, and she did 
a lot." 

"My favorite colors are pink and white," 
says Betty, "and those were the predom- 
inating colors even to the bathroom 
walls. There was a small bedroom and I 
turned that into a dressing-work room. 
We did a lot of sewing there. 'We' includes 
my Chicago friend Mary Clinton, a young 
designer. Together we made all of my 
clothes. Every gown I've worn has come 



from her hands and mine." Betty adds, 
"The apartment turned out very nice, 
very charming. Everything was antique 
or secondhand, depending on your view- 
point. Furnishings for the whole place 
cost me only a hundred and fifty dollars." 

When Betty moved to New York's 
Greenwich Village this past spring, she 
brought along her tremendous collection 
of classical records and her library on the 
Civil War. Charlie kids that she's been 
trying to find a Civil War book in which 
the South wins. Betty explains more ac- 
curately that her interest started in child- 
hood: "I saw many beautiful Southern 
mansions. We lived in none, but mighty 
close by in our cabins. It was the old 
homes that stimulated my interest in the 
Civil War period." 

Being engaged to a man who was usually 
half a continent distant, Betty had too 
much time to read. "The trouble with our 
romance," says Charlie, "was that we 
were never together more than a few days 
at a time. Neither of us could see any 
sense in starting off a marriage with that 
kind of handicap." 

Betty and Charlie had hit it off well 
from the beginning. "We didn't even 
think anything personal the whole first 
year," he says now. "It was strictly busi- 
ness. But we worked so well together. 
And, the second summer I knew Betty, I 
invited her out on my boat. Well, she'd 
never been on a boat before, but again 
she was just a natural. She pitched right 
in — cooking, cleaning, sailing. It was obvi- 
ous that she would make a wonderful first 
mate. I fell in love and renamed the boat 
the 'Beejay.'" 

But, once they realized they were in 
love, their romance got a bit rocky. "Being 
apart most of the time was terrible," 
Betty says. "I was in Chicago. Charlie was 
in Manhattan. The tension got so bad that, 
when we did get together, we were always 
under a strain the first day. The second 
day was fine. But, on the third, we'd be 
faced with separating again, and so it was 
a fight." 

Charlie thinks it's just a matter of 
months before they're married. He knows 
he has a real find in Betty. "After all, I 
know enough about the business to know 
she has a great talent. And, when it comes 
to domestic virtues, she can't be beat. 
Even her cooking is great. She makes 
Southern-fried chicken as good as a 
Yankee. Her beef Stroganoff is angelic 
and her apple pie is downright sexy. And 
the way she does it! Why, she prepares the 
whole meal, serves it, eats with you — 
and has the table cleared off and the dishes 
washed and dried before you finish your 
coffee. Never any fuss." 

Betty matches Charlie's enthusiasm 
when she talks about Charlie, and she 
notes that even her parents are crazy 
about him. Her parents still make their 
home in North Carolina, and today Jesse 
Johnson has a hundred-acre farm of his 
own, and a Cadillac instead of a model-A. 
Jesse Johnson is also a deejay on Station 
WDIX in Orangeburg and hasn't, by any 
means, given up singing. The Johnson 
Family has a standing invitation to ap- 
pear on Ed Sullivan's show — and that in- 
cludes Betty. They have a handsome 
album on the market, issued by Victor, 
named "Old Time Religion." This,- too, 
includes Betty. Betty has always been 
close to the family and has particularly 
depended on her father for comfort and 
advice. She has always called on him when 
she's had a hard decision to make — which 
was the case recently, before quitting Don 
McNeill's Breakfast Club. 

"I've wanted to study acting and danc- 
ing for a long time now," Betty explains. 
"I did work a couple of months on a 
radio serial, a couple of years back. But. 



when I decided to leave Chicago, I called 
Daddy. It had been wonderful experience 
being with Don McNeill two full years, 
and he's so great to work with. But I 
called Daddy about what I wanted to do, 
and he said, 'Well, Don likes you and you 
could stay on and it's great security.' So 
I told him, 'I want to study for a while. I 
want to go to New York.' So he said, 
'Then do it now, rather than later.' " 

Betty notes that her father shares her 
enthusiasm for Charlie. 'What Charlie 
means to me I can best tell in Daddy's 
words. It came about after my first ap- 
pearance on Ed Sullivan's show. That was 
before Christmas last year. It was a 
momentous evening for me. Sullivan in- 



spires me — he's like a coach and I'm the 
team. Well, I thought the show went 
well and, a few days later, I had a letter 
from Daddy. He loves Charlie and I 
wasn't surprised at what he had to say. 
He told me first that I sounded and 
looked so good on the Sullivan show. He 
wrote, 'Sullivan must be a wonderful 
man to show your talents so well and you 
must be very fond of him. But remember 
one man you owe everything to — and 
that is Charlie Grean, because Charlie 
had faith in you. He's done the things for 
you I'd have done if I'd had his talent. You 
have his faith and love and you're a 
lucky girl.' And that," Betty concludes, 
"is hitting the nail on the head." 



*Voti 



C FOR YOUR FAVORITES 



Each year TV Radio Mirror polls its readers for their favorite programs 
and performers. This year, for the first time, the polling will begin in 
the July issue and continue until the end of the year. Results will be 
tabulated after December 31, and award winners will be announced in 
the May 1958 issue. So vote today. Help your favorites to win a Gold Medal. 



TV STARS and PROGRAMS 

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Best Program on Air 

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TV Husband-and-Wife Team . . . 



RADIO STARS and PROGRAMS 

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Female Singer 

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Dramatic Actor 

Dramatic Actress 

Daytime Emcee 

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Send your votes to TV Radio Mirror Awards. P.O. Box 
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63 



(Continued from page 30) 
day long, drew the kids from blocks 
around, with her pied-piper personality. 
The Funicello lawn was soon the gather- 
ing place for the whole neighborhood. 

Annette dreamed of becoming a famous 
dancer— with a chance of someday meeting 
a real movie star. But, in her wildest 
dreams, she never imagined that her some 
fifteen admirers would so quickly grow to 
some fifteen million TV fans across the 
country! Through the marvel of television 
—and the magic touch of Walt Disney- 
Annette surprisingly found herself the 
center of attention among a hundred movie 
stars, just four short years later, at the 
Foreign Press Awards presentation in the 
Cocoanut Grove, where Mr. Disney and 
his ABC-TV "Mouseketeers" were being 
honored. Wide-eyed, Annette found her- 
self face-to-face with Alan Ladd— and 
Alan Ladd said, "My son David is a great 
admirer of yours, Annette. Could I have 
your autograph for him?" 

Annette — who never thought she'd see 
so many stars at one time, and certainly 
never dreamed she'd be one — couldn't be- 
lieve this was happening to her. The pert 
little princess of TV had to pinch herself 
to be sure she still wasn't dreaming. 

Born in Utica, New York, October 22, 
1942, Annette Funicello was always so tiny 
for her age that her father had nicknamed 
her "Dolly" before she was old enough to 
walk. "When Annette was one-and-a- 
half," says her mother, Virginia, "she be- 
gan picking up, by ear, every pop song on 
radio. The first song she learned in its 
entirety was Johnny Mercer's 'Accentuate 
the Positive.' The members of our family 
were amazed when Annette — still only 
about two feet tall — would stand and sing 
at the top of her lungs, 'You've got to 
accent-chew-ate the positive . . .' Yet 
Annette has always been shy. She would 
sing for her family. But, if a stranger 
were present, she was quiet as a bird. 

"When Annette was five," her mother 
continues, "I started her in kindergarten. 
Still shy, and surprised to find five hundred 
other children on the schoolground, she 
cried all day. But she was quick to adjust. 
In fact, she was soon singing for the entire 
student body. The principal, amazed by 
her wonderful sense of rhythm and appar- 
ently natural musical ability, called me 
one day to say he thought we should do 
something to develop it. He suggested 
Annette's taking up drums. 

"This was an exciting — and, at the same 
time, heart-breaking — experience for all 
of us," recalls Mrs. Funicello. "Annette 
soon became a master, for her age. At six 
and seven, she was doing rolls and per- 
forming with her drums as well as a boy 
of fifteen or sixteen. All her life, it had 
been obvious that she possessed a natural 
musical ability. Then, suddenly, we were 
surprised to find that Annette had become 
so involved with the rhythm of her in- 
strument that she had developed rhythmic 
quirks throughout her body — her eyes 
blinked, her head nodded in time to such 
an extent that we knew she would have 
to give up the drums. 

"We think one of the most soothing in- 
fluences in Annette's life was her religious 
faith. From the first day she went to 
church, it has been an important part of 
her life. Her First Communion and Con- 
firmation were made at the Church of the 
Blessed Sacrament in Hollywood, where 
T we had moved when she was still only six. 
v She was so serious about the church that, 
R when she was younger, she wanted to be 
a nun. Though she has given this idea up, 
today she wouldn't miss mass for anything. 



The "Dolly" Princess 

"Roy Ball, Annette's drum instructor," 
Virginia Funicello continues, "was sorry to 
lose her but agreed she should give up 
drumming. He suggested, however, that 
Annette continue to develop her natural 
talents and thought dancing would be a 
healthful outlet. Annette took to dancing 
like a bird to flight, though she was still 
shy. Again she was such a standout, the 
instructor suggested she take private les- 
sons. The first week she was with Margie 
Rix, her teacher, the class put on a recital. 
This was Annette's first public perform- 
ance, and Joe and I watched to see how she 
would react. After the recital, pink- 
cheeked with excitement, she came up to 
us, saying, 'Oh, dancing is fun!' 

"When Annette was nine," her mother 
recalls, "we were swimming at Pop's Wil- 
low Lake in the Valley, one summer day, 
when we saw they were preparing to have 
a beauty contest. Girls between nine and 
sixteen were eligible. 'Should I?' An- 
nette asked me. 'I really don't think I 
have a chance.' But I was pleased to see 
some of the shyness leaving her, and I 
encouraged her to enter. In spite of the 
fact that Annette was one of the youngest 
entrants, her pert personality helped her 
to win. She was crowned 'Miss Willow 
Lake' and 'Queen of the Valley.' 

"We were both surprised to learn that a 
raft of prizes came with the title: $140 in 
cash, a wardrobe and a modeling course 
from Lynn Terrell. Annette was thrilled 
with the modeling course. Every day she 
wasn't dancing, she spent modeling for the 
stores around the Valley. I think that's 
how her mad passion for new clothes de- 
veloped. Today, she has dozens of Capri 
pants and an equal number of petticoats. 
"Dancing and modeling were Annette's 
life," says Mrs. Funicello. "But if she had 
had to choose between them at that time, 
I'm sure she would have chosen dancing. 
She loved it. She cracked all the tile in the 
bathroom mastering new tap steps! She 
has danced, at one time or another, for 
every hospital and charity in Los Angeles. 
"When she was twelve, Leo Damiani, 
conductor of the Burbank Symphony, pre- 
pared a recital for Walt Disney. He asked 
Margie Rix's dancing class to perform the 
'Swan Lake' ballet. The very next morn- 
ing, Mr. Traver — the Disney assistant cast- 
ing director — called to ask if Annette could 
audition for the Disney Studios! 

"We went in, the next day. There seemed 
to be a thousand children there already 
. . . and they all looked talented. Annette 
performed, for just a few seconds, in front 
of seven men. They didn't tell us how we 
scored, at the time, but we were assured 
we'd be notified at a later date. Two weeks 
went by, before the phone rang." 

Annette herself says, "I was anxious 
about that second audition, too. But later, 
Mr. Disney came over personally to say, 
You're a very pretty girl and a good 
dancer, too.' I was scared, going in — but, 
after that, I felt like flying!" 

"At the close of the audition," Mrs. Funi- 
cello recalls, "Annette was asked if she'd 
be willing to come in for a two- week trial. 
At first, she was frightened — she had never 
worked in front of a camera. I told her to 
give it a try. If she didn't like it, she could 
quit before she signed a contract." 

After two years on the Mickey Mouse 
Club, the pretty little princess has found 
TV land to be a fabulous world of wishes - 
come-true. Today, she is a star in her 
own right, reportedly receives 3,500 let- 
ters a week from fans across the country. 
Every day, the mailman is Santa Claus. 
He's always glad when he gets to An- 
nette's home — because his load is so much 
lighter when he leaves. On Valentine's 
Day, for example, he delivered sixteen 



boxes of candy. And, during Easter Week, 
a lovely assortment of rosaries and prayer 
books from fans who know Annette is a 
Roman Catholic. 

Locally, Annette has an enthusiastic 
Culver City fan club of boys. Frequently, 
on Saturdays, they'll ride their bikes the 
twenty miles to her Studio City home to 
see her. Recently they brought two dozen 
roses, and two corsages — one for Annette 
and one for her mother. A more distant 
fan club, in Oklahoma, faithfully save up 
their nickels and dimes until they have 
enough money to buy Annette another 
gift — usually, a bottle of perfume. 

Annette answers as much of the mail 
herself as she can. She sits down and per- 
sonally writes long letters to some of her 
first fans with whom she still stays in 
touch. "I have to come in and turn off the 
fights," says Mrs. Funicello, "or Annette 
would be writing all night. There are some 
letters she will always answer, those from 
the deaf and mute, ill and injured, and 
letter writers who she feels need a friend. 

"She's sensitive to the feelings of others," 
Mrs. Funicello points out. "Her brother, 
Joey, for example, is at that age where 
he's gotten a little heavy, and is fre- 
quently referred to as 'chubby.' But An- 
nette comes to his defense, by saying, 'He's 
not chubby, he's husky — that's all.' " 

On the other hand, Joey, at eleven, is 
at the age where he doesn't need anybody 
to fight his battles for him. He's finally a 
big Little Leaguer. He is secretly proud of 
his older sister's stardom on the Mickey 
Mouse Club. But, on the surface, he is a 
cynic. His attitude is: "Ah, dancing — so 
what? How many home runs did you hit 
last season?" To Joey, success is meas- 
ured by the number of yards you can hit 
a ball from home plate. Annette's mother 
and father think that's fine, because Joey's 
attitude helps keep Annette's feet on the 
ground, though they are quick to reassure 
you she doesn't need it. And she doesn't. 

A more well-adjusted teenager would 
be hard to find. She spends a steady three- 
hours-a-day in the Disney Studio school, 
and is nearly a straight-A student in the 
following subjects: Algebra, English, 
Spanish, and Social Studies. Her teacher, 
Mrs. Seamon, says, "Annette is aware . . . 
she's sharp ... a serious student." An- 
nette's favorite subject is English. Why? 
"Because," she says, "it comes easy to me. 
I feel as though nouns and pronouns are 
friends of mine." 

Among the Mouseketeers, Annette's 
closest friends are, quite naturally, the 
boys and girls nearest her own age — 
Doreen, Sharon, Bobby, Lonnie, and 
Tommy. Most of them are in the same 
class (one teacher to ten pupils). The 
Mouseketeers are much like the famed 
French Musketeers. They share great 
camaraderie. Their idea of a perfect day 
is not missing a single ride at the fun 
zone at the Ocean pier, spending the 
evening roasting marshmallows around 
the bonfire at the beach, all topped off, 
for the girls, by a pajama party at one of 
the girls' homes. 

At home, Annette is still the typical 
teenager. Her all-pink bedroom, her 
favorite room in the new house, is her 
domain. On the custom-designed dresser, 
you're sure to find copies of Photoplay 
and American Girl. Eighty bottles of 
perfume (gifts to her hobby collection 
from fans) rest on the dressing table. 
Behind the door she has the typical teen- 
ager's pin-ups: Elvis Presley — "He can 
really sing . . . he's different!" Tommy 
Sands — "He's the new Presley . . . isn't he 
cute!" Pat Boone — "He's married . . . 



(sigh)." Tab Hunter; the late Jimmy 
Dean; Jayne Mansfield; Natalie Wood; and 
Elizabeth Taylor. When asked who she'd 
like to be if she could be anyone else, 
Annette instantly replies, "Oh, Elizabeth 
Taylor!" More than anything else in the 
world, she wants to be a good actress, looks 
upon her acting roles in "Spin and Marty" 
and "The Dairy Story" as being the high- 
lights of her Mouseketeer career. 

Annette's schedule (up at 6:30, to work 
at eight A.M., home at 7:30 P.M.) is so 
full filming the Mouse Club series that 
she has little chance to do anything more 
than keep her own room picked up. "An- 
nette is not the greatest housekeeper in 
the world," Mrs. Funicello laughs. "If I 
ask her to do the dishes, she'll do them 
all right, because she is obedient, a really 
good girl — but it will take her two hours. 
Honestly, you've never seen so many 
other things that have to be done at the 
same time as the dishes — the radio has 
to play on a very certain station, and the 
dancing on television has to be watched, 
or she'll break off for a minute to practice 
a new dance step. Anything, it seems, to 
keep from doing the dishes. But they do 
get done. 

"On the other hand, Sundays before 
Mass, she's up early to whip up the best 
hotcakes of any of us. She loves hot- 
cakes . . . Annette's not a great cook, 
but she can boil spaghetti, broil a steak, 
bake a potato and prepare hotcakes. 
She's learned to cook all the things she 
loves to eat." 

There is a warm, loving aura among 
the members of the Funicello family in 
their new Studio City home. Annette 
loves both her brothers, Joey, 11, and 
Mike, 5. Joey, though he's loathe to ad- 
mit it, loves his now-famous sister, too. 
He'll jump at any opportunity to play 
miniature golf with her or go bicycling or 
horseback riding (sports she excels in). 
Mike shows his devotion by being the 
greatest Mickey Mouse Club fan in the 
house — he has all the Mouse Club caps, 
shirts and records. 

Annette's father, Joe Funicello, owns a 
combination garage-gas station on Ven- 
tura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks. Joe has 
lovingly called his daughter "Dolly" all 
her life. You can tell Annette loves her 
father dearly by the way she says 
"Daddy" and runs to greet him when he 
comes home at night. Recently, she and 
her mother surprised him on his birth- 
day — when he came home to find a silver- 
gray Cadillac parked in the garage. Still 
amazed, Joe says, "I was so surprised, I 
thought I was at the wrong house!" 

The Funicellos waited for two weeks, 
until they could put the top down, to go 
out for a drive in Dad's new convertible. 
"Mike was so excited," Annette grins, "he 
almost got his head caught as we folded 
up the canvas top." 

To Annette, the silver Cadillac was 
Cinderella's own golden coach, the night 
she and her parents drove up in front of 
the famous Cocoanut Grove to be present 
at the Foreign Press Awards. She knew 
her grandest dream had come true. 

Then — to be treated like a star herself! 
George Gobel, for instance, topped off the 
magic evening by asking, "Annette, may 
I have your autograph? It's not for me, 
you know, but for my son Gregg. He's a 
big fan of yours ... in fact, we have a 
Mickey Mouse house. I even buy Mickey 
Mouse cat food . . . and we don't have a 
cat!" 

It was almost too much. Surrounded 
by stars, Annette Funicello had to pinch 
herself to make sure she wasn't dream- 
ing. But it was no dream. Joe's little 
girl "Dolly" is really a star, a fourteen- 
year-old princess in Walt Disney's magic 
land of make-believe. 





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Imel From Indiana 



(Continued from page 23) 
like wooden sticks stuck into small balls 
of yarn. 

There was another night when Jack for- 
got to bring along one of the legs to his 
marimba. He'd remembered the hammers 
that night, however, so — while some stout 
fella from the audience held up one end 
of the marimba — Jack knocked out his 
numbers. The audience thought the whole 
thing was pretty hilarious. Jack recalls 
that it didn't seem so funny to him at the 
time. And it certainly wasn't amusing to 
his agent — who hadn't booked him as a 
comedy act. His memory improved con- 
siderably after that one. 

As soon as he was out of high school, 
Jack's family started on him to go to 
college. The prospect didn't intrigue Jack 
greatly, but the persuasive powers of his 
Uncle Lawrence were so great, he couldn't 
think of much of an argument. Jack's 
grandfather, Dr. Paddock, had once been 
mayor of Portland, had run for state rep- 
resentative from Indiana, and had taught 
anatomy at Indiana University. Uncle 
Lawrence had been graduated from that 
school, too. To carry on the family tradi- 
tion, everyone thought Jack should go to 
Indiana U., pledge Phi Gamma Delta, 
and get his degree. But, at the last min- 
ute, Jack decided to go instead to the 
Arthur Jordan Conservatory, which is 
part of Butler University in Indianapolis. 

Jack had been at the conservatory only 
nine weeks when Horace Heidt came into 
the area, and held auditions for his 
"Youth Opportunity" shows. Jack audi- 
tioned, and was offered a berth with the 
traveling company. Jack felt he'd learn 
faster on the job than in school. His 
parents backed him up and he quit school. 

This tour stretched into two years, and 
included one-night stands in five or six 
towns in each of the forty-eight states. 
As Jack had anticipated, this rugged tour- 
ing proved invaluable as training. Besides, 
it proved to him he'd chosen the right 
profession. "Unless you loved your work," 
he laughs now, "you couldn't possibly 
stand the strain of a two-year tour made 
up of one-night stands. But, even after 
two years of it, I was as full of enthusiasm 
about dancing and playing the marimba 
as I had been the day the tour started!" 

On November 29, 1951, having reached 
the advanced age of nineteen, Jack was 
married to Norma Denney, the pert Port- 
land miss, one year his junior, he'd been 
courting for five years. He remembers the 
first time he ever laid eyes on her — as 
she rode the ferris wheel at the Jay 
County Fairgrounds the summer she was 
thirteen. They had gone to different gram- 
mar schools, and so had never met before. 
Happily, Portland had only one junior 
high school, and one senior high school — 
which simplified things considerably. Of 
course Jack was in the school band, and 
Norma "played at" the drums. (She ad- 
mits to having had no particular talent, 
except for concealing her lack of talent 
from the band director.) There were the 
usual trips to out-of-town football games, 
as well as local games, concerts, rehears- 
als. After each of these, no one ever 
bothered to ask to escort Norma home — 
everyone knew Jack would be doing that. 
Although he can't recall ever "walking" 
her home, he remembers riding her home 
on the handle-bars of his bike. After all, 
he points out, she lived "clear across 
T town" — a distance of about two miles in 
v Portland — and he claims he was too lazy 
R for the walking-home routine. Later, as 
soon as he turned sixteen and could get 
his driver's license, he'd wangle the fam- 
66 



ily car. Even that great opportunity was 
not without its drawbacks. Pop Imel got 
a new car every year, and was forever 
warning Jack: "Be careful you don't 
scratch the paint job!" 

Finally, Jack managed to attain the ex- 
alted status of a Man Who Owns a Car. 
A convertible only slightly younger than 
Jack himself, it was immediately dubbed 
"The Yellow Peril." "I didn't even have 
to buy it on time," Jack remembers, "but 
that was no particular accomplishment. 
For what it cost, anyone could have paid 
cash!" There were no rear seats, but Coke 
cases served as well. And it was with 
genuine regret that Jack traded "The Yel- 
low Peril" in, several years later, on a 
somewhat more recent model. 

Having changed his status from single 
to married in November, 1951, Jack made 
another abrupt change only two months 
later, this time from civilian to sailor. He 
was sent off to boot camp at Great Lakes 
Naval Training Camp, on the shore of 
Lake Michigan north of Chicago. 

Eddie Peabody, then a commander at 
Great Lakes, was holding auditions for 
Navy personnel for entertainment units. 
Jack played for him, and then — for the 
next year and a half — was entertaining 
recruits as they passed through Great 
Lakes. Meanwhile, Norma found an apart- 
ment in near-by Waukegan, and Jack 
was able to live at home. Their first son, 
Greg, was born at the Great Lakes Naval 
Hospital in 1953. 

On September 1, 1953, Jack was trans- 
ferred from Great Lakes to the Navy 
School of Music in Washington, D. C. 
There, in the typical stepped -up fashion 
of the armed forces, he compressed a 
year's musical training into a six-months' 
course. He studied theory, harmony, re- 
hearsed with the concert and dance bands, 
and had private instruction on the ma- 
rimba. He'd report at school at eight 
o'clock each morning, and have classes 
until 4:30 each afternoon, five days a 
week. Then — unless it was his turn to 
stand watch — he'd have his weekends free 
to join Norma and Greg at their apart- 
ment in suburban Anacostia. 

It was while he was in Washington that 
Jack met Alex Sheftell, who was later to 
become his manager. A group of Navy 
musicians were playing a benefit at a 
suburban country club and Sheftell, one 
of the guests, heard Jack play and became 
interested. Sheftell had never managed 
any talent before, and Jack admits now 
that he was frankly dubious about Alex's 
ability to do all the things he promised. 
He need not have worried — Alex had a 
wide acquaintance in show business, and 
whatever he promised, he delivered. 

First, there was an audition for Dennis 
James' television show, Chance Of A Life- 
time. By a curious coincidence, the man 
hearing the auditions was Frank Reeves, 
who had also conducted the Horace Heidt 
auditions several years before when Jack 
appeared there. 

Subsequently, Jack appeared on Chance 
Of A Lifetime on three different occasions. 
He lost out the first two tries, then won 
on his third appearance. Being in the 
service, he couldn't accept part of the 
prize — engagements at the Moulin Rouge 
and the Latin Quarter. But he could and 
did take the thousand dollars which went 
along with first prize. Looking back on it 
now, he realizes that those three appear- 
ances brought him infinitely more than 
just that thousand. 

"On the shows I did when I was still 
in high school, and even the appearances 
on the road with Horace Heidt," he ex- 



plains, "I had only two or three routines, 
and never had to bother to create more. 
But, for those Chance Of A Lifetime 
shows, which were competitions, I saw 
the need to work up ideas which were 
more than just good — ideas which would 
win. I'd work five and six hours a day 
on a new routine. After I'd finally won, 
I realized I'd improved my act at least 
eighty percent, and had stimulated my 
thinking to the degree that ideas came 
more easily when I needed them. I'd 
jolted myself out of a rut — and, without 
that jolt, I'd probably never have got 
where I am now!" 

His training completed at the Navy 
Music School, Jack was transferred to 
San Diego, California, where he was at- 
tached to the Admiral's Cruiser and De- 
stroyer band. In typical Navy-wife fash- 
ion, Norma trailed after him, and they 
were soon settled in an apartment in 
San Diego. Their second child, a daugh- 
ter, Debbie, was born in Balboa Hospital 
in San Diego. 

In 1955, Jack was first-place winner in 
an all-Navy talent contest, pitted against 
acts from all the naval districts in the 
world. His award was an appearance on 
Ed Sullivan's all-Navy television show. 
Again in 1956, Jack won a spot on Sulli- 
van's show, this time as third-prize winner 
of the annual Navy talent contest. 

As the end of his tour of duty came into 
sight, Jack was faced with a terrific de- 
cision. He had been offered a spot in the 
Navy Band at Washington, D. C. This 
would mean that he and Norma would 
be permanently based in Washington, that 
he'd have a comfortable salary, and be 
eligible to retire, at thirty-eight, on a 
pension of three hundred dollars a month. 
He could take this, and be reasonably 
secure for the rest of his life. Or he could 
strike out on his own, and try for some- 
thing more than just security. Jack de- 
cided to take the chance. 

He made a try, first, for an audition 
with the Welk organization. He sent along 
a record of his marimba work, and was 
summoned to the Aragon ballroom to do 
his stuff in person. Of the forty-five en- 
tertainers who had been spotlighted on 
Welk's Top Tunes And New Talent since 
the show's debut, Jack was the first to 
impress Welk to the extent that the band- 
leader wanted to add him to the estab- 
lished troupe. 

Today, Lawrence Welk says, "I think 
Jack Imel is a fine young man and a 
credit to our orchestra. He's a hard 
worker, lends variety to our show, and 
has unlimited talent." Those behind the 
scenes say that Welk is particularly im- 
pressed by Jack's down-to-earth approach 
to his music. Although he's been pound- 
ing away on the marimba for ten years, 
he still practices daily as if he were a 
newcomer to the instrument. When the 
band rehearses at the Aragon ballroom 
on Wednesdays, Jack has been known 
to take his marimba off somewhere, shut 
the door, and get in some private practice. 

Two days before his Navy duty officially 
ended, Jack signed with the Welk show. 
It's a one-year contract — officially. But it's 
a well-known fact that the Welk players 
have a way of sticking around as long 
as they indicate by their enthusiasm that 
they want the job. 

The first Welk show on which Jack ap- 
peared created a mild sensation back in 
Portland, Indiana. Jack has enough rela- 
tives in that area to make up a respectable 
audience, all by themselves. His dad, 
"Hap" Imel, has a grocery store and meat 
market on Main Street, just across the 






square from the court house. His Uncle 
Jack is a partner in the store, his Uncle 
Tom is head meat-cutter for the market, 
and his Uncle Roy is in charge of the 
store's deliveries. It's a cozy, family-type 
arrangement all the way around. Jack's 
Uncle Charlie is a partner with Hap 
on the farm near Portland, where much 
of the livestock for the Imel Brothers 
Market is raised and butchered. 

Jack's Aunt Lela owns the block of real 
estate where the store is located, and 
the wholesale grocery house where Imel 
Brothers buy some of their stock. Uncle 
George and Uncle Bill are retired, and 
live there in Portland. Uncle Harry is a 
grain broker in Muscatine, Iowa, and 
Aunt Pearl Trout lives in West Palm 
Beach, Florida, where her husband is a 
barber. The clan is large, and devoted to 
following Jack's career. 

"When I signed for the Welk show," 
Jack recalls, "there was a big story in the 
Portland Commercial Review about it, 
with my picture and everything. But I 
think the folks in Portland must be pretty 
tired of reading about 'that Imel boy' by 
now. Every time anything has happened 
to me in the last ten years, one or an- 
other of my relatives would 'just happen 
to mention it' to someone at the paper. 

"They sure are faithful about watching 
me on the Welk show, I've got that to say 
for them! I call home every week, as soon 
as the show is over. Generally, I put in a 
person-to-person call to Mom. And al- 
most always I find her over at Aunt Lela's 
house — Aunt Lela's television set works 
better than some of the others." 

After signing with the Welk group, Jack 
and Norma Imel moved to a pleasant 
apartment in suburban North Hollywood, 
only minutes (via the freeway) from 
Hollywood's ABC studios, where Welk 
shows are staged. They hardly had a 
chance to unpack, however, before Norma 
was off to the hospital again. This time 
she brought home another son: Lawrence 
Jack, born March 15. That Lawrence is 
not for Mr. Welk, however, but for Jack's 
grandfather and uncle — and for Jack him- 
self. "I don't think I've ever mentioned 
it to Mr. Welk," Jack grins, "but my first 
name is Lawrence, too." 

There was one slight disappointment 
connected with young Jackie's birth, so 
far as Jack was concerned. When Greg 
and Debbie were born, in Navy hospitals, 
regulations did not permit Jack to be with 
Norma after she entered the hospital. 
Having attained civilian status again, Jack 
anticipated that this time he'd get a chance 
to see what the expectant father goes 
through in the waiting room of a mater- 
nity ward. 

So what happens? Three days before 
the baby arrived, Jack burst forth in a 
glorious array of polka-dots, which the 
doctor promptly diagnosed as chicken- 
pox. Norma, happily, had got that sort of 
thing out of the way years ago. But Jack 
was not only denied the chance to go to 
the hospital with Norma — he was also 
assured of a fair amount of ribbing from 
the Welk gang, who felt somehow that 
chicken-pox is not exactly a dignified 
affliction for an adult. 

For at least one person, however, that 
bout with the chicken pox was a silver- 
lined cloud. When Lawrence Welk called 
to inquire about the state of Jack's health, 
Jack admitted that he wasn't feeling too 
bad. But he looked a mess, he added, 
and had been forbidden by the doctor to 
return to work for a week. 

"Good!" Welk replied cheerfully. "Now 
you can get in a solid week of practicing!" 

No "doctor's orders" ever reached a 
more willing "patient" than young Jack 
Imel, who began practicing 'way back 
home in Indiana — and has never stopped. 



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67 



(Continued from page 50) 
manages his farflung framework with the 
easy grace of an ambling lion— but he 
maintains that he is poorly coordinated 
physically. . . . He married a beautiful 
and talented girl — yet he insists that he 
has always been afraid of "wimmin." . . . 
He's a master of hilarity — guaranteed to 
roll ticket-purchasers for the Warner 
Bros, film version of "No Time for Ser- 
geants" in the aisles — but his first screen 
role, enacted for Elia Kazan's "A Face 
in the Crowd," is as "a guy that every- 
body said would make me hate myself be- 
fore the picture was over." 

The graph of his career would show a 
jet trail upward, as a result of his be- 
havior as the Georgia hillbilly who de- 
moralized the U.S. Armed Forces in "No 
Time for Sergeants" on Broadway — and 
he's even formed his own production com- 
pany, Manteo Productions (named for his 
home town in North Carolina) — but it's 
obvious he doesn't consider himself a 
screen star yet. . . . He's under contract 
to Capitol Records- — who will release four 
sides from "A Face in the Crowd" in July 
— but Andy still cannot think of himself 
as a platter paragon. He says, "Sometime, 
I guess, I'll make a record I like, maybe." 
(The above spelling is correct. But, as 
Andy speaks the sentence, it comes out 
like this: "Some-torn, ah gay-us, ah'll 
make a reck-aud ah lak, mebbe.") 

This list of contrasting elements, existing 
gene by chromosome in the Griffith make- 
up, could be extended for some distance. 
But the answer at the end of the column, 
whether long drawn or cut short, would 
be the same: Andy's essential ingredients 
make up a fascinating individual. 

Born in a North Carolina city with the 
unlikely name of Mount Airy, Andy man- 
aged to get himself through high school 
undamaged, although he played Sousa- 
phone and slide trombone in the school 
band. (Not simultaneously.) He also sang 
bass in the school choruses, and dreamed 
of preparing himself for a career in opera. 
One method of preparation was to catch 
repeated performances of Ezio Pinza in 
the picture, "A Night at Carnegie Hall," 
singing the great operatic role of Boris 
Godunov. That, thought baritone-basso 
Andrew Griffith, is for me. 

After high-school days, Andy continued 
his education at the University of North 
Carolina, where he majored in music, in- 
evitably encountering such cultural sacred 
cows as "Hamlet," "Romeo and Juliet," 
the "Swan Lake" ballet, and "Carmen." 
Yet, as he became familiar with story 
and/or music, the clown side of his sin- 
cere, almost solemn nature began to take 
liberties with the classics. Occasionally, he 
undertook to "explain" one of the stories 
— in a sorghum accent. 

Actually, Andy didn't think much of 
his lampoonery, although it seemed to oth- 
ers to be a rare talent. In his opinion, 
it was merely college hi jinks. Yet, while 
he was teaching at Goldsboro High School, 
Andy decided to test himself by under- 
taking the study of drama with Ainslee 
Pryor, who was a director of the Raleigh 
Little Theater. Andy told himself he was 
doing it — not in hopes of a theatrical ca- 
reer — but because he felt that any pointers 
he could pick up from Mr. Pryor would 
be useful when, as a harried music prof, 
he found himself serving as referee in an 
assault upon Gilbert & Sullivan by teen- 
T age glee clubs. 

v Came a day, one spring, when the Cha- 
R pel Hill Choral was preparing a presen- 
tation of Haydn's "The Seasons," and was 
auditioning singers. Someone asked Andy, 

Do 



Hillbilly Hero 

"Have you heard Bobby Edwards sing? 
Now there's a voice!" 

Andy thought it over for a moment, 
then admitted, "I don't know him. I don't 
know any Bobby Edwards." 

"You really don't know Bobby Ed- 
wards," chuckled Andy's informant. "The 
'Bobby' is short for 'Barbara,' and she's 
quite a gal." 

"What's her voice?" Andy wanted to 
know, refusing to be conned into admira- 
tion sight unseen and sound unheard. He 
was told that Barbara's voice was a dra- 
matic soprano, and that she had taken her 
M.B. degree from Converse College at 
Spartanburg, South Carolina. 

"From then on, it developed like a 1930 
movie," admits Andy. 

Like this: One afternoon, Andy and Carl 
Perry (tenor) were loitering around the 
rehearsal hall when Carl announced be- 
latedly, "By the way, there goes Bobby 
Edwards." All that was to be seen was a 
pair of shapely underpinnings (taking 
their owner rapidly away), a matching 
sweater and skirt (trim), and a mass of 
shining brown hair worn in a long bob. 
Naturally, Andy remembered the hair. 

He knew that he was going to remem- 
ber the voice, as well — probably forever — 
when he heard her sing in rehearsal a few 
days later. With all speed — taking into 
consideration a certain Dixie deliberation 
and a natural reticence — Andy asked Bar- 
bara Edwards to be his guest at a coffee 
break. This led to other coffee breaks, to 
dinner, to moonlight conferences, to love. 

In due course, Andy decided to spend 
his summers on Roanoke Island, appear- 
ing in Paul Green's "The Lost Colony," 
traditional presentation of the tragedy of 
Sir Walter Raleigh's colonization attempt. 
In the midst of this occupation, Andy 
signed a teaching contract for the ensuing 
year. Abruptly, it seemed a fine idea to 
get married. On a summer's Saturday 
morning, Andy and Barbara met at Nor- 
folk and selected her wedding gown — a 
rust silk afternoon frock with matching 
hat, shoes, and gloves. For Andy, they 
selected the traditional navy blue. 

Because Andy had an evening off, on 
Mondays, the ceremony was celebrated at 
eleven o'clock on the morning of August 
22, 1949. There was no problem of church 
or sect: Barbara is Baptist, Andy is Mor- 
avian — so, inevitably, the rites were per- 
formed by a Methodist minister in the 
only sanctuary available on short notice, 
the Episcopal Church. The octet from 
Westminster Choir sang, and Sal Razassi 
played "Ave Maria" on his vibraharp. As 
Andy recalls it: "You wouldn't expect a 
vibraharp to be effective — or maybe even 
ecclesiastical — but I've never heard the 
'Ave Maria' played with greater solemn- 
ity. It was the sort of thing you can never 
forget." 

The ensuing three years were both 
blissful and troubled. Blissful, as the early 
years of a highly compatible marriage 
must always be. Troubled, because Andy 
felt, in the depths of his conscientious 
soul, that he was not making a success of 
teaching high-school music. "It takes 
talent to be a good teacher," he says, 
respect in his tone. "I knew my subject, 
but I couldn't seem to pass on my knowl- 
edge. There were some gifted kids in my 
classes, and I felt they were entitled to the 
best possible instruction. Well, I didn't 
feel I was the best possible instructor." 

Day after day, month after month, he 
and Barbara discussed their quandary. At 
length they hit upon an idea: Why not 
go into business for themselves, capital- 
izing on their singing ability? Why not 
put to use their excellent training, plus 



Andy's flair for comedy? There was a 
market: Throughout the South there were 
civic groups needing an act or two to en- 
liven a social evening. Why not provide 
it? 

They borrowed a thousand dollars, made 
a four-hundred-dollar down payment on 
a station wagon, and moved to a house 
having a room remote enough from neigh- 
bors to make rehearsal possible without 
arousing local malice. With their remain- 
ing capital, they invested in five hundred 
brochures, on the cover of which appeared 
the legend: "Unique Entertainment by 
Barbara and Andy Griffith." 

Their first professional appearance was 
before the Ashboro, North Carolina Rotary 
Club on October 28, 1952, and consisted 
of art songs by Barbara, comic monologues 
by Andy. The take was seventy-five 
dollars, of which fifteen went to their 
accompanist. 

T avorable word of Griffith-type enter- 
tainment spread. Andy's proficiency on the 
guitar increased and his repertoire of 
monologues was expanded. In a hillbilly 
accent that could have been cut only with 
a quart of mountain dew, Andy explained 
to his audiences— much as he had done in 
college — the highly involved plots of such 
venerable classics as "Romeo and Juliet," 
"Carmen," the "Swan Lake" ballet, the 
art of playing football, and "Hamlet." 

After some eighteen months of guitar 
barn-storming, Andy was placed under 
contract by Capitol Records and waxed 
his first glorious lampoon, a devastating 
exposition entitled "What It Was — Was 
Football." More than eight hundred thou- 
sand customers applauded his effort by 
buying the disc and wearing it smooth. 

That success ended Andy's trips to 
homebody gatherings and started him 
zooming on the night-club circuit. Such a 
move was supposed to represent a rung 
upward on the ladder of success, but 
there were times when Andy was con- 
vinced that it was more like being put 
through the wringer. 

He was spotted on The Ed Sullivan Show 
and, according to Andy, "I was a bomb. 
Whoo-eeee. I laid a real bad egg." Anal- 
ysis of his failure to win friends and in- 
fluence applause on the Sullivan show has 
turned up many possibilities. Perhaps the 
Sullivan studio audience wasn't adequate- 
ly hip to Shakespeare to appreciate a 
parody. Or perhaps it was so conservative 
that it resented the Griffith liberties taken 
with monuments of English literature. 
More reasonable is the suspicion that, 
when Andy Griffith — a handsome, blue- 
eyed, tousle-headed hunk of personality 
in the super-Tab-Hunter class — ambled 
onto the stage, he was expected to render 
some maple-sugar love song. No one was 
prepared for a murderously witty parody 
delivered in a backwoods drawl. 

There were other frustrations, other 
problems. In Birmingham, Alabama, one 
evening, a portly lady — turned 100-proof 
sentimental by certain beverages — made 
her way to the stage, shaking her fist and 
announcing in the dialect that Andy was 
using, "I just wanna tell you ... I just 
wanna shay. . . ." She took up a position 
on the steps, and Andy went into a revival 
song, a foot-stomper called "In the Pines," 
to — well, change the subject. 

Sometimes the frustrations of show 
business were funny rather than painful. 
On one occasion, Andy found himself 
billed with a striptease act. There was the 
news on the marquee: "9 — Beautiful Girls 
—9." 

By that time, Andy had acquired a 
following of youngsters, some of high- 



school age — whose mortal combat with 
English Lit courses had given Andy hero 
status because of his jousts with the 
classics — and some even younger, who 
merely enjoyed guitar, dialect, and the 
sense of fun intrinsic in Andy's act. 

Andy went to the management, diffi- 
dently, and explained that he couldn't ap- 
pear with strippers. Everybody had to 
make a living in accordance with his talent 
and energy, he conceded, but his con- 
science wouldn't permit him to attract 
youngsters to entertainment that would 
not be approved (although possibly in- 
dulged in) by their elders. "I was real 
embarrassed," Andy remembers. 

His protests were forwarded to his book- 
ing agent, and thereafter Andy has found 
himself sharing the boards only twice 
with 15 — Beautiful Girls — 15. Friends say 
that nothing is ever lost on Mr. Griffith: 
In the midst of a trusted and sophisti- 
cated group, Andy has been known to 
provide a quakingly funny travesty of 
the striptease without removing so much 
as his sports coat. 

When Andy read Mac Hyman's "No 
Time for Sergeants," he got in touch with 
Hyman to request permission to incorpo- 
rate some of the more hilarious passages 
in his night-club act. Inevitably, this rep- 
resented one of those happy juxta- 
positions of player, period, and vehicle. 
Andy Griffith was the perfect person to 
bring to life the Georgia hillbilly, and the 
triple arts of stage, film and TV could 
well agree that "No Time for Sergeants" 
was a vehicle perfect for all three. 

Oddly enough, Andy seemed to fit into 
many other garments in addition to khaki. 
Even before "Sergeants" was launched, 
an actor named Robert Armstrong listened 
one night to a lament from Elia Kazan. 
Where, Mr. Kazan wondered, could he 
find a big, blond, blustering hillbilly — 
with sensitivity — to star in a segment from 
Budd Schulberg's novel, "Faces in a 
Crowd"? (The story was titled originally 
"Your Arkansas Traveler," but its film 
version was to be called "A Face in the 
Crowd.") 

"Easy," said Mr Armstrong. "Andy Grif- 
fith could do it." 

Which brings us full circle to Andy's 
first picture, to be followed by "Ser- 
geants," to be followed (everyone be- 
lieves) by a long and satisfying career in 
TV, in theater, and on film and records. 

The problems will continue, of course. 
Andy says that any success demands that 
a man take stock of himself regularly to 
make sure that he is keeping his basic 
values. A degree of unvarying normalcy, 
he believes, is the basis for all personal 
happiness. "Keeping basic values and 
remaining normal will be easy — or at least 
easier for me than for some — because I'm 
fundamentally lazy. It takes lots of energy 
to go completely haywire." 

Another safety measure is the fact that 
Andy enjoys people, mobs of people or 
minor numbers — it doesn't matter — but 
only in job context. His working associa- 
tions are felicitous, his professional per- 
sonality delightful. But he loathes the 
social scene. He abhors large parties, 
benefits, galas. He has to be dragged to 
premieres, and he leaves as quickly as 
courtesy will permit. "Barbara has trouble 
with me," he admits. "You should hear 
her say, 'Now Andy. . . .' " 

Mr. Griffith's idea of a fine evening is 
one of reading while a hi-fi set plays 
suitable music, or one of joining a few 
friends having a community of interest. 
Informality and fellowship are probably 
the keynotes of Andy's social ideal. 

A quick check will indicate that this 
attitude is about par for American hus- 
bands. In brief, Andy Griffith is the All- 
American Boy, Southern Division. 



IS 




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69 



(Continued from page 48) 
four weeks later! My family thought he 
was wonderful. So, of course, did I." 

It was a lovely wedding. Rosemary's 
mother had passed on after a long illness, 
but her mother's sister, Mrs. Percy Johns- 
ton, and her uncle offered their house for 
the wedding — the same house from which 
Rosemary's mother had been married and 
where Rosemary was now living. Even 
the decorations were the same. There was 
bitter-sweet in the memories, but mostly 
there was warmth and tenderness to over- 
shadow any sorrow. 

"Jack and I both love our families," says 
Rosemary, "and have learned to appre- 
ciate them even more since some members 
have passed on. His folks live only a short 
drive away and my relatives are not far — 
my Aunt Belle Johnston, now a widow, 
my father, my sister and brother. There 
are several groups of young people in our 
area, too, and we get together a great deal. 
With both of us so busy, and with so many 
people whose companionship we enjoy, 
the weeks just fly by." 

Their ranch house, which sort of rambles 
up a hill, was built with seven rooms, but 
the Merrells have added three extra rooms 
in the basement. There's a room for bar- 
becue parties, done in knotty pine like the 
others and decorated in red and yellow, 
with a long picnic table and benches. A 
ping-pong room, where they entertain 
their ping-pong club. A small lounge and 
bar, with tables and divans along the wall 
for informal serving, and where guests 
can watch Jack's collection of many kinds 
of exotic and beautiful fish swimming 
about in mammoth and handsome tanks. 

The rest of the house is more formal, but 
still gay and bright with color, and every- 
where there are the Oriental touches that 
satisfy something in Rosemary's soul. (She 
isn't sure just what it is, but only that she 
has always loved beautiful art objects 
from the East and longed to own a few 
of them.) There are some fine Chinese 
tapestries and rare bits of ornament, and 
even the dull green and gold pattern of 
the foyer wallpaper has this Oriental feel- 
ing. 

The big living room is mostly eighteenth- 
century traditional and gracious, with 
Rosie's baby grand piano — a birthday gift 
from Jack two years ago — over in one 
corner. She describes herself as "only a 
fair musician, who loves to play the piano 
a little, and also the accordion," but the 



All the Things You Are 

piano has been a stimulus to continued 
practice. 

The den is filled with Early American 
antiques, the kitchen is desert pink, the 
porch done in charcoal with pink blinds 
and pink wrought-iron furniture. Up- 
stairs are three bedrooms, in such unique 
and lovely colorings as burnt lemon and 
aqua. One is Rosie's Valentine Room, so- 
called because she decorated it in red and 
white, with little hearts. 

"I love our house so much that I make a 
tour every morning before I leave," she 
admits. "Each room is different. Each 
looks beautiful to us, probably because we 
started without one thing and picked the 
furnishings, piece by piece, with loving 
care. Everything has a special meaning 
for us now." 

When you ask Rosemary how she man- 
ages to keeo a house so spic and span with 
only the help of a cleaning woman, and 
do all the cooking, too, she laughs. "I 
run. All the time. I usually get up about 
6: 45 and I get home just in time to do any 
marketing necessary and to have dinner 
on the table by 6:30. Poor Jack — he used 
to have to wait until all hours while I 
learned to assemble a dinner, but now I 
have learned to plan better. When he is 
away, I eat with friends, if I'm not too late 
or too tired. I'm supposed to have one 
day a week to myself, but it doesn't always 
work out that way. I do my housework 
in bits, a little whenever I have time. We 
would like to own a dog, but we're away 
so much and an animal would be lonely. 
I did have a Siamese cat we called Minute 
— but cats get lonely, too." 

Rosemary has always been a busy little 
girl on the go. Her interest in acting 
started in high school, in Montclair, New 
Jersey, where she was born. As a mem- 
ber of a dramatic group, she was singled 
out by a friend of playwright George S. 
Kaufman and was soon offered a teen-age 
role in a Kaufman-produced play called 
"Franklin Street." Unfortunately, it closed 
in Washington, D. C, before coming to 
New York, but now playwright Moss Hart 
had seen her, and he put her in "Junior 
Miss." That ran about a year. Then Mr. 
Kaufman cast her in a play written by 
Gypsy Rose Lee, called "The Naked Gen- 
ius," in which Joan Blondell starred. By 
thio time, Rosemary was attending the 
Professional Children's School in New 
York, playing in summer stock when she 
wasn't on Broadway, and had, all told, 



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70 



become a full-fledged professional actress. 

Rosemary's mother was never quite sure 
that acting was a career for any daughter 
of hers — especially when the play had a 
name like "The Naked Genius." But the 
family went along with Rosie's ambitions, 
and her Aunt Belle encouraged her, be- 
lieving, that young people should have 
the chance to do what they really wanted 
to do. 

"By 1944, when I opened in 'Dear Ruth' 
on Broadway," Rosemary recalls, "my 
mother was so ill that she was in a hospi- 
tal, and I didn't know she was there in the 
audience on opening night. She had asked 
to be brought in an ambulance, and had 
to be taken back immediately after the 
performance. I was so proud when I was 
told she had been there, and I am sure it 
made her happy. It was the last time she 
saw me perform, and a little later she 
passed on. My Aunt Belle was just won- 
derful to me. When I was playing in 
'Dear Ruth,' I was also doing some radio 
work, and my aunt used to sit in the 
car and wait for me and whisk me off to 
the theater in time." 

Even with her aunt's help, and the help 
of others in her family who loved and be- 
lieved in her, and the help of many friends 
she had now made in the theater, Rosie 
was never a girl to wait for someone else 
to do her work. She is as honest with 
herself as she is with others, and she faced 
the fact that an actress doesn't find much 
economic security in the legitimate the- 
ater. She wanted to use her talent, and 
she wanted to be sure there would be a 
place for her to keep on using it, so radio 
seemed more and more attractive and se- 
cure. She planned a campaign to get 
known in radio circles. 

"Over a period of time I bought many 
pairs of tickets for 'Dear Ruth,' sending 
them to producers and directors of radio 
shows with my compliments, and suggest- 
ing they might enjoy our play. I never 
knew whether my first program, Grand 
Central Station, was a direct result of my 
campaign, but I think it was an indirect 
one. Tickets were acknowledged and used, 
and opportunities did begin to open. I 
played a Saturday radio show for eight 
years, The Adventures Of Archie An- 
drews, opposite Bob Hastings. I had many 
dramatic parts on radio, and not for one 
week since my bold campaign have I ever 
been out of work. Like other radio per- 
formers, I made the step into television — 
probably more easily than some, because 
of my stage background." 

Although she seemed destined from the 
first to be the rebellious teenager, Jill, who 
would learn lessons of sacrifice and fam- 
ily loyalty, it was months after reading 
for the part before she was finally chosen 
for Young Dr. Malone. One actress after 
another was tried, and later rejected, be- 
cause the producers had certain qualities 
in mind that seemed elusive when they 
tried to pin them down to any one per- 
son. Only Sandy Becker, who is Dr. Jerry 
Malone himself, picked Jill from the start. 
"You're Jill," he kept saying to her. By 
the time everyone else was agreeing with 
him, he just smiled and said, "Didn't I tell 
you it would happen?" 

"Radio and television have given me 
roots," Rosemary says now. "I really 
grew up on Mama. I loved the show from 
the first moment, and never dreamed it 
would have such a success. I was just so 
proud to be in it. We are like a real 
family by now. 

"As Jill in Young Dr. Malone, I have an- 
other family. Sandy Becker has been just 
wonderful. And Joan Alexander, who is 
Tracey. I love the talk of hospitals and 



medicine. I think I have always been a 
little in awe of the medical profession, 
and when I was single I was attracted to 
young doctors. I did volunteer work in 
Roosevelt Hospital in New York and 
sometimes I almost wished I had become 
a doctor." 

Until the time of her marriage, Rose- 
mary went to New York University early 
mornings before rehearsals and early eve- 
nings several times a week. She found 
herself learning her lines for the show in 
class, and doing her class homework at the 
studio. But, in spite of the confusion of 
interests, she loved it all, loved to study, 
used to be so pleased when "Mama" and 
"Papa," as she fondly calls her TV parents, 
liked her compositions, or when Sandy 
Becker, her "other father," congratulated 
her on her marks. 

Now, of course, it's her personal life 
that comes first, although she can't im- 
agine any life that doesn't include her 
work as an actress. "Jack is so willing to 
let me be a person," she points out. "An in- 
dividual, and an actress, as well as his 
wife. I have always believed it is hard 
for anyone out of our profession to marry 
someone in it, but Jack makes it easy. 
Most men I knew before him showed some 
jealousy of my devotion to my work and 
the way it took my time. Some men don't 
like to have a wife who can earn a fair 
amount, believing that this takes away their 
own prestige. We haven't built up any 
such problems. 

"Jack is proud of me, I believe, but not 
too proud. He makes it plain that he is 
more proud of me as a person than as an 
actress, proud that I have the ability to 
work hard for what I want. When he gets 
a certain twinkle in his eye, I realize that 
he thinks I'm getting a little 'upstage' and 
I snap right out of it. He's the most well- 
adjusted person I know, without a trace of 
sham." 

They both worry about the state of the 
world and what may happen, and they 
both realize that each day should be lived 
to its fullest. Both have a sense of humor, 
both know that everything cannot always 
be perfect — so they strive to make it as 
perfect as possible, here and now. 

"I like getting older, because I get hap- 
pier every year," Rosie says. "I have a 
husband, a home, and I hope someday to 
have children. It's wonderful to have a 
career, too — to create, to use what I have 
learned during these past years. But I 
have also learned how important a per- 
sonal life is to a woman." 

When Rosemary and Jack were married, 
Ralph Nelson (then the director of the 
Mama show) and his wife Barbara an- 
nounced they had arranged to have all the 
whistles in New Jersey blow at the mo- 
ment the wedding began. Sure enough, 
tha minister had just started the ceremony 
when suddenly it seemed as if every siren 
in the state began to shriek. What the 
two had forgotten was that this was Sat- 
urday noon, when the air raid sirens and 
the warning whistles are always tested. 
It almost broke them up! 

"Now, when Jack and I hear the sirens 
scream, we look at each other and laugh. 
'Must be a wedding somewhere,' we say." 

The whistles are still blowing, the bells 
are still ringing for Rosemary Rice Mer- 
rell — the way she hopes they will ring, 
joyously, in the future of Young Dr. Ma~ 
lone's teen-aged daughter Jill. 

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Faith Had the Answer 



72 



(Continued from page 29) 

"We'll get a wheelchair for you," the 
sister said firmly to the woman. Poor 
thing, she thought. She probably doesn't 
realize how close to death she is. And 
she's so young — in her twenties. But God 
must have His own reasons for summon- 
ing her. 

That was how close to death Mrs. Bill 
Lundigan was, three years ago. At the 
time, Bill Lundigan — your host on Shower 
Of Stars and Climax!, the Chrysler Cor- 
poration shows — had only recently com- 
pleted making a picture, "Terror Ship," 
in London. 

Bill didn't know how close to true terror 
he and his wife, Rena, were to come in 
the days and weeks that followed. They 
had gone to Paris and Rome in a holiday 
mood. A few signs of illness which Rena 
showed had disturbed their Paris holiday, 
but they had hoped it was just a passing 
thing. Then, in Rome, she had become 
deathly sick. 

Whenever the hospital rules permitted, 
Bill was by Rena's side. Between visits to 
her bedside, he was on his knees in the 
chapel of the hospital, praying that God 
spare Rena, if it was His will. 

Rena's blood count was down to 44. Ac- 
cording to most medical science, with a 
blood count of 44, she should have been 
dead. Somehow, through Bill's faith and 
her own, and with the help of the great- 
est of all Physicians, she survived. 

In Rome, she had six transfusions of 
bljod. The doctors said she needed an 
operation, but they couldn't operate on 
her till they got her blood count up to 
at least 72. They planned to operate on 
her in the hospital in Rome. But, when 
Rena learned that she would have a long 
convalescence, she implored the doctor to 
let her go back to Los Angeles for the 
surgery. Finally, he gave his consent. 

"The doctor," Bill told me, "was taking 
one of the greatest chances a medical man 
ever took. For going back to the United 
States meant flying at a height of 22,000 
feet to California. If Rena had started 
again to lose blood on the plane, where 
could we have gone for help? At 22,000 
feet above the ground, how are you going 
to get to a hospital?" 

We were sitting in the living room of 
the Lundigans' modest but charming 
Benedict Canyon home, built in simple 
French Normandy style. 

"It was Bill who took the greatest 
chance," said Rena simply. Her happy, 
healthy face shone with the light of 
fulfillment. This is the way a woman 
looks when her dearest dreams have come 
true. 

Rena's hair was the glossy dark brown 
of perfect health, and her brown eyes 
danced impishly. Today, things are a far 
cry, at the Lundigans', from what they 
were three years ago. 

It seems unlikely that Bill Lundigan 
would have been able to endure the 
anguish of those days, if it had not been 
for his deep, abiding faith in God. "Faith," 
as he said earnestly, "is ninety-nine per- 
cent of the happiness Rena and I have 
found with each other, and with Stacey." 

Stacey is the two-year-old bewitching 
bundle of energy whom Bill and Rena 
adopted about a year ago. She is some 
twenty pounds and about thirty-four 
inches of sheer enchantment, with reddish- 
blond hair, blue eyes that change in dif- 
ferent lights but look very like Bill's, and 
a temperament which seems a composite 
of both Bill's and Rena's. 

The little house in Benedict Canyon is 
filled with the presence of Stacey. There's 
her photograph over the fireplace, right 



in the heart of the living room. There's 
a nursery filled with her toys and dolls — 
she has had so many of them that the 
Lundigans have given two-thirds of the 
wonderful gifts away, since no one child 
could ever find time to play with all of 
them. And there's the pink and white bed- 
room, which was ready and waiting for 
Stacey a whole year before the Lundigans 
found her. 

Stacey is a bundle of dynamite from the 
moment she wakes up in the morning till 
she goes to bed at night. As soon as she 
jumps out of bed, she rushes into Daddy's 
room, pats his cheek, flings herself across 
his chest, and begs to play "horsie." Bill, 
of course, is the horsie, little Stacey the 
rider. "Thank heavens she doesn't wear 
spurs," he laughs. 

The rest of the day, Stacey bounds 
around the house with the same tireless 
energy. She reaches for everything her 
little hands can grasp. When told she 
mustn't touch something, she walks away, 
diverts your attention elsewhere, pre- 
tends to have lost all interest in the object 
she was told not to touch, but eventually 
comes back to it. 

Among her big interests in life are Bill 
and Rena, pocketbooks in general, and 
her life-size doll. She loves to have 
breakfast with this big jointed doll, which 
was exactly her size when Stacey received 
it last Christmas as Bill's gift. Now 
Stacey is a couple of inches taller than the 
doll, which she dresses in her cast-off 
dresses and shoes. This particular doll is 
probably the best-dressed one in Bene- 
dict Canyon. 

Who would have dared predict such 
complete and ecstatic joy for the Lundi- 
gans during the grim days when Rena lay, 
struggling for life, in her room in St. 
John's Hospital? She needed transfusion 
after transfusion, and it had to be whole 
blood, not just plasma. There were al- 
ways willing, eager donors, for Bill and 
Rena have always been loved by those 
who knew them. The men at 20th Century- 
Fox, where Bill was then under contract, 
gave quart after quart of blood. 

Though Rena needed the blood desper- 
ately, it was hard for her thin, wracked 
body to take it. It used to take five hours 
for a single transfusion; and she could 
be given only one transfusion a day. There 
was one day when the doctors were almost 
sure that they were going to lose her. For 
two or three hours, she was losing blood 
more rapidly than it could be administered. 

The possible danger of cancer never 
worried Rena. "It just didn't occur to me," 
she says simply. "I didn't allow myself 
to think of it, any more than a soldier 
thinks that he is going to be killed in 
battle. He knows some men will be, but 
doesn't believe his number will come up." 

Bill knew that it was a possibility, but 
there was no way of getting a final answer 
till five days after the operation. The 
preliminary biopsy was hopeful, but only 
the final biopsy after the . surgery would 
tell the complete story. 

Bill was on his knees every day in the 
chapel at St. John's. Just as he had sought 
God's guidance before he took the flight 
with Rena to Los Angeles, so he sought 
it daily while Rena lay, wavering between 
life and death. 

Five days after the operation, Bill 
learned the merciful truth. There was not 
a sign of malignancy. Bill says, "Through 
those trying days, I would have buckled 
under, if it hadn't been for faith. If you 
don't have faith in God to live with when 
you have happiness, and to fall back on 
when you have sorrow, you're in trouble." 

With faith, as Bill learned, you can go 



through the most harrowing experience, 
and your spirit and courage and sanity 
will survive. The Lundigans have par- 
layed faith, love and laughter into true 
happiness. Without these three precious 
ingredients, they would have nothing. 

How thoroughly they have found hap- 
piness is evident in the joyful atmosphere 
of their home today. Stacey stood on the 
staircase leading from the living room to 
her bedroom. On her head was perched 
the most audacious hat, a vivid Kelly 
green, embellished with flowers. 

"Macushla," said Bill to Stacey, "on what 
boat did you come over?" 

And truly, with those bluish-green 
Irish eyes, that impossible hat, and the 
pink dress that any smart little colleen 
would know was just right for her to 
wear, Stacey might really have come 
straight from the Emerald Isle. 

Actually, when the Lundigans first be- 
held her, she looked altogether different. 
Instead of looking like a rosy-cheeked 
colleen, she was all eyes and ears, thin 
and wan, with sparse, lackluster hair — and 
a bald spot in back which might have been 
caused by hours and days and weeks of 
lying in a crib, with no one close by to 
pick her up and fondle her. Of course, 
things changed when she was brought to 
the agency, but she had been there only a 
couple of weeks — not nearly long enough 
for the sisters there to give her the feel- 
ing of being forever loved, forever secure. 
"I'd always pictured a blue-eyed blonde," 
Rena admits. "And there was Stacey, 
with straight darkish hair. She was very 
apathetic. There was no expression on 
her face. She looked as if she didn't give 
a hoot." 

The Lundigans looked at each other. 
The Mother Superior said, "Why don't you 
take a couple of weeks to think it over?" 

"We don't want time to think it over," 
said Rena. "That's right," said Bill. For 
two years, they had been searching for a 
baby girl. They hadn't wanted an infant, 
but a child who might sometimes be able 
to travel with Bill, who covers 125,000 miles 
a year on his good-will tours for Chrysler 
Corporation. During those two years, it 
had sometimes seemed as if they'd never 
get the baby they wanted. This was the 
first baby girl old enough to travel with 
Bill and Rena, on at least some of his 
cross-country flights. 

"Let's be honest about it," says Rena. 
"It wasn't that we had an instantaneous 
feeling of great love for Stacey. But she 
was available." 

"We didn't take her because she was 
the loneliest child we'd ever seen, but 
in spite of it," Bill adds, with that almost 
painful honesty of his, leaning over back- 
ward, so he won't be credited with "noble" 
motives. "Let's get one thing straight. 
Nobody was doing anybody any great 
favor. Least of all, were we doing any- 
one a favor in taking Stacey. It was the 
other way round. The good Lord blessed 
us by giving her to us." 

The Lundigans were not quite sure 
what to name her. Bill held out for the 
name Anastacia, after his grandmother. 
Anastacia is also a saint's name. Rena, who 
dislikes nicknames, wanted a name that 
couldn't be converted into a nickname. 
She'd always liked the name Stacey. 
They compromised. The baby was named 
Anastacia — Stacey, for short. 

Stacey thrived on love. With the pass- 
ing of months, her hair turned lighter, her 
figure a little fuller, though she's small- 
boned and will never be chubby. After a 
trip to Honolulu, her hair even turned 
curly. This was such a phenomenon that 
friends have asked Rena what she did to 



turn the straight hair curly! "I didn't do 
anything," she laughs. "Actually I can 
hardly get a comb through her hair now." 
She believes that the vitamins in Stacey's 
diet may have caught up with Stacey's 
hair. 

Stacey has probably traveled more than 
almost any other baby her age in the 
United States. When Bill went to Wash- 
ington, D. C, to emcee the Inaugural cele- 
bration, Rena and Stacey flew there a 
few days later, to be with him. 

"We confused the admirals and all the 
big shots in Washington, D. C," Rena 
laughs. "They just couldn't understand 
why such a small child was being allowed 
to take a walk in the hall on our floor of 
the Mayflower Hotel at nine each night. 
Of course, the reason was that there's a 
three-hour difference between California 
time and Eastern time. Since we were 
going to be in Washington for only a few 
days, I didn't think it wise to put Stacey 
on Washington time. Why put Stacey to 
bed at six? 

"Stacey knew everybody on our floor 
at the hotel, and she was always flying 
around the corridor. One evening, my 
brother, a professor at the University of 
Maryland, came over to baby-sit for us. 
He had quite a time chasing after Stacey, 
especially when she wandered toward the 
wrong suite at the hotel." 

"As a result of that experience," Bill 
chuckles, "he may remain a bachelor for 
the rest of his life." But it's obvious he 
really thinks an evening with Stacey 
should be enough to make any man yearn 
for marriage and a family, with a bounc- 
ing little angel-imp like Stacey to make 
things really interesting. The Lundigans 
themselves are so far from being fright- 
ened by their hectic experiences with 
Stacey that they plan eventually to add 
three more children to the family, first 
a girl, then two boys. 

Love, laughter and prayer have been 
a part of the Lundigan life from the very 
beginning. 

Bill was born in Syracuse, New York, 
the eldest son of Martha and Michael 
Lundigan. Bill's father owned a shoe 
store in Syracuse and, as a youngster, Bill 
worked part time in his father's store. But 
Bill became fascinated by radio very early 
in his life. Jack Shannon, program direc- 
tor of WFBL in Syracuse — who later be- 
came Father Shannon — had great faith in 
Bill, and gave him a chance to become a 
full time announcer for the station. 

At the beginning, however, Bill was un- 
sure of himself and pulled so many boners 
that the station officials asked Jack Shan- 
non to fire him. Instead, the future priest 
pleaded with them to give Bill more time 
to get accustomed to his new chores — and 
promised to coach him himself. Aided by 
Jack Shannon, Bill became a very suc- 
cessful announcer. In fact, he got his first 
chance to act in the movies as a result 
of an incident that occurred during his 
days in radio. 

One day on the air. Bill interviewed a 
man who was publicizing one of the "Tar- 
zan" pictures. The man had a number of 
boxes with him, and asked Bill Lundi- 
gan if he would mind his opening a couple 
of the boxes. "Oh, that'll be fine," said 
Bill, never guessing who was in them. Out 
of the first box came Cheetah, a chim- 
panzee. Out of the second box the pub- 
licity man pulled a fourteen-foot python. 
"Take her," he told Bill. "She's harmless, 
because she's all doped up." 

Bill confesses that he is a devout coward 
about two things— pythons and airplanes 
— airplanes because he knows quite a bit 
about them and is always aware when 
anything goes wrong, and pythons because 
he knows nothing about them. Unwilling 
to admit that he could be so frightened 
of a doped-up snake, Bill picked up the 



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73 



slithery creature and put on the greatest 
act of his life. He pretended to be com- 
pletely unconcerned. This so impressed 
the publicity ambassador from the movie 
studio that he suggested Bill should have 
a movie test. 

The test led to a contract with Universal. 
For the next six years, Bill worked first 
at Universal, then at Warner Bros., and 
finally at M-G-M. Then he got a much 
more important contract with the U. S. 
Marines. 

Bill has never been known to speak 
more than a sentence or two about his 
service with the Marines. When eager- 
beaver press agents or reporters have 
asked him to discuss his war adventures, 
he has politely refused. He feels that he 
did only what any decent American would 
and should do — and he's not going to do 
any flag-waving about it. 

Most writers about Hollywood claim 
that Bill is just a plain, average, ordi- 
nary American, exactly like your next 
door neighbor and mine. But the truth 
goes much deeper than that. The Lundi- 
gans have proved themselves extraordi- 
nary people, raising themselves above 
"typical" experience in the way they have 
faced both tragedy and joy with a valiant, 
undefeated spirit. Watching Bill over your 
TV set, admitting him into your living 
room as the friendly host of Climax! and 
Shower Of Stars, you are welcoming some- 
one with a much deeper faith — and a 
brighter sense of humor — than most people 
have ever developed. 

Take, for instance, the Lundigan love 
story. It might have happened to any- 
one — but not in just the way that the Lun- 
digans tell it. 

The first time they met, they were intro- 
duced by friends at Schwab's drug store 
on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. 
Rena was fifteen. "I was the kind of 
child," she laughs, "who wore braces 
on her teeth and no make-up. I was any- 
thing but precocious. I had no romantic 
ideas about Hollywood actors. I'd liked 
Bill's personality on the screen, but I 
thought he was just another Hollywood 
actor." 

"Thanks for the word actor," Bill grins. 

"I didn't really expect him to pay any 
attention to me," Rena confesses, "but I 
thought he could have been a little more 
polite. It seemed to me that he gave me 
an awfully fast brush-off. At that time, I 
thought he had some warmth on the 
screen, but not much warmth off it. 
Frankly, I thought he was conceited." 

Bill's memory of that first meeting is 
very, very hazy. However, he was older 
than Rena, considered himself a mature 
type, and presumably dismissed her from 
his mind as a child. 

Four years later, they met again. This 
time, Rena was no longer the kind of 
young woman who could be easily dis- 
missed from anyone's mind. The braces 
were gone, of course. Her dark brown hair 
was lustrous. Her blue dress brought 
out the sparkle of her eyes. She was 
vivacious, attractive, a challenge to any 
man. She had come to Quantico, Virginia, 
to visit her friends, Leonard Lee, a cap- 
tain in the Marine Corps, and his wife. 

Bill won't sit still for any moonlight 
or roses or soft music, when you discuss 
his romance. The most he'll go for is his 
masculine admission, "There must have 
been a pretty vital attraction." 

You ask hopefully, "Was it love at 
second sight?" 

Rena laughs. "I don't know whether 

Bill loved me or not, but he certainly liked 

my convertible! His car was on the Pacific 

T Coast, and mine was available. Going from 

* Quantico to Washington, D. C. by train 

B was like traveling by train during Civil 

War days — so slow it was murder. And 

_ . Bill loved to travel to Washington. So we 



used my car. We went together for about 
a month." 

During that month, Bill told Rena that 
she was spoiled. It made no impression 
then — but now, looking back upon her past 
life, she admits she had been spoiled. 
All her life, she'd had her own way. Bill 
was the first person who didn't let her 
have it. "It took a lot of years to change 
me," she admits. "I guess that secretly 
I liked his masterful ways. Or perhaps 
I was just stunned. One day he decided 
he'd drive my car. He didn't ask . . . 
he just drove it." 

"It was a mating brought about by 
'mutual antagonism,' " Bill chuckles. Then, 
more seriously, he adds, "All around us, 
young people of eighteen or nineteen, 
caught up by war emotions, were rushing 
off to get married. I was almost thirty- 
one. Our feeling for each other was much 
more serious than just war-emotion ex- 
citement." 

Perhaps they would have married then 
and there but Bill had to go overseas on 
six hours' notice. 

"Rena saved my life by writing to me 
regularly while I was overseas," he says 



Cool, Men, Cool! 
PAT BOONE 

on the cover — and an exclusive story 
from Hollywood by his wife 

• 

TOMMY SANDS 

in full color portrait — and candid 
revelations by his mother 

• 

ALL THIS-PLUS 

fifteen "hottest" new singing 
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— and behind the flippant words is real 
emotion. 

One of the greatest links with the peace- 
ful world he'd left behind was Rena. No 
matter whether his letters reached her 
or not — and usually they didn't — she wrote 
him regularly, pouring out her thoughts, 
her emotions, her beliefs, in a way that 
stirred him with the knowledge that this 
was the girl for him. Now he knew for 
sure that, if he survived the war, he 
would want her to be his wife. 

Neither of them remembers the exact 
time and place where Bill proposed. But 
they'll never forget the wedding on August 
18, 1945. By this time, Bill was considered 
a pretty important Hollywood star, and 
photographers and newspapermen would 
have loved a tip-off on where and when 
he was going to get married. Bill wanted 
none of that Hollywood hoop-la. To avoid 
it, Bill and Rena decided to get married 
at Huntington Beach. No newspaper men 
were informed; no photographers called 
in. 

"In fact," laughs Rena, "Bill was so 
determined not to get publicity out of our 
wedding that he forgot to call in a local 
photographer, to take a photo for the 
family album. So we have none of the 



wedding. My family was unable to come, 
but looked forward to getting a photo, at 
least. When they learned we hadn't taken 
one, they were very disappointed." 

Oddly enough, there were no photo- 
graphs taken of Rena on another import- 
ant occasion — when she wore one of the 
most beautiful gowns ever designed for 
her — a dark green ballroom dress with 
an embroidered lace top, and a bodice 
made of an unusual Italian material. This 
was the gown she wore at the President's 
Inaugural. Bill selected it from a group 
of designs by Howard Shoup. 

In order to do his job as emcee for the 
Inaugural, Bill dressed before Rena, and 
went down to the hotel ballroom first. 
Rena, in her beautiful gown, sat with 
some friends in a box on the opposite side 
of the room. Designed to hold about eight 
hundred people, the room held several 
thousand that night "It would have taken 
the entire Notre Dame forward line to get 
from me to Rena or from Rena to me," 
Bill grins. 

Rena was with some friends who had to 
leave early to fly to Detroit. Not wishing 
to sit alone in the box, she went up to her 
room, took off the gorgeous gown, sat 
around in her robe, waiting for Bill. When 
he finally came upstairs, her eyes were 
drooping, and she was ready for slumber- 
land. Bill smiled and said, "By the way, 
darling, how did you look in that dress?" 
To this day, he hasn't seen Rena in it. 
The Lundigans are so busy devoting all 
their spare time to Stacey that Rena 
wouldn't dream of wasting precious time 
parading in the gown for Bill's inspection. 
Currently, it's very obvious that the 
real ruler of the Lundigan household is 
little Stacey. The real Anastasia may have 
had difficulty proving she was a member 
of Russia's royal family, but this par- 
ticular Anastacia has no difficulty getting 
everyone to treat her as a princess. 

Practically every day is Christmas at 
the Lundigan household. At Christmas 
time, little Miss Stacey was showered with 
more gifts than a quiz contestant. Among 
last year's gifts were a pink and white 
tricycle from a close friend of the Lundi- 
gans, and a miniature pink-and-white 
Plymouth, small enough for Stacey to 
drive, presented by Byron Avery, head of 
West Coast promotion for Chrysler. 

Sometimes friends ask Rena, "Is Stacey 
impressed by the fact that she can see her 
father performing on TV?" 

"No," laughs Rena. "She takes it for 
granted." 

The first time Stacey saw Bill on TV, he 
was away on a trip, and she was feeling 
disconsolate because she hadn't been per- 
mitted to accompany him. She missed him 
very much. Then, suddenly, she was 
startled not so much by his picture on the 
TV screen, as by the sound of his voice. 
She began hunting everywhere for him, 
even under the TV set. 

The next time she saw Bill on TV, he 
was in the room. Hastily, she patted the 
TV image on the cheek, then hurried over 
to Bill's lap, and patted his cheek. On the 
whole, she showed a distinct preference for 
Bill over his TV image. After all, who 
can possibly sit on the lap of a TV picture? 
Among Stacey's endearing habits is 
that of taking dollar bills out of her 
mother's wallet, and handing them to Bill. 
"How in the world did you train her to do 
that?" one friend asked Bill admiringly. 
Recently, Bill was given a. certificate by 
American Airlines stating that he is an 
Admiral of the Flagship Fleet — this, in 
honor of his many travels by plane for 
Chrysler. "I really ought to give the cer- 
tificate to Stacey," he smiles "I think she 
has done almost as much traveling as I 
have." There's not much doubt about it 
— Stacey's the Admiral from whom the 
Lundigans take their orders. 



WHAT'S NEW ON 
THE WEST COAST 

(Continued from page 11) 

million-selling record "Teen-Age Crush," 
being chased up the sales ladder by his 
newest, "Ring-A-Ding-A-Ding," which 
looks like it will set the million-mark 
sales bell a-ringing, too. On the strength 
of his new national prominence, Tommy 
has moved out of the small Hollywood 
apartment he shared with his mother, 
Grace, and they have found a new home in 
Brentwood. . . . Who else is moving? 
George Montgomery and Dinah Shore, 
celebrating the first birthday of their new 
Beverly Hills home, are building a newer 
place in the Hills — so the children will 
have more children of their own age to 
play with. . . . And in June, Groucho is 
moving into his new place in the hills 
above B.H. . . . And Tic Tac Dough, having 
found a new night-time home in this 
country, also found a home in England. 
The quiz's TV counterpart overseas will be 
known as Naughts And Crosses. 

Music Memos: Lawrence Welk, always a 
man to encourage saving and thrift among 
his bandsmen, was delighted when accor- 
dionist Myron Floren started the Cham- 
pagne Club's Investment Fund for the 
band several years ago. Each member 
contributed a portion of his weekly earn- 
ings, and this in turn was invested in the 
club's behalf. Recently, a special dinner - 
meeting of the club celebrated its earning 
of $2,500 on their investment, which then 
totaled $20,000. Now, that's what we call 
sweet music. . . . Other dividends in the 
Welk band: Larry Dean, vocalist, and his 
wife Alice expect a second baby next 
November. Larry will celebrate his 21st 
birthday, a new baby, and a new home all 
within a few months. . . . Elvis, move over, 
here comes Ricky — Nelson, that is. Ricky, 
the youngest son of Ozzie and Harriet 
Nelson, has started on a new career. And, 
from all reports, he sings a mean song. 
In fact, Verve Records, with whom he's 
signed, says Ricky promises to sing up a 
real storm. Says Ricky, "This singing, 
man, this is the life for me!" Maybe we 
can get Ozzie, Harriet, and David to join in 
a little four-part harmony. Mom and dad 
were musical before they were mirthful. 




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75 



My 13 Years With Jerry Lewis 



(Continued from page 53) 
York or Los Angeles. I've made so many 
round trips I know now to ask for a seat 
on the right or the left side of the plane, 
depending on which direction I'm headed, 
so I avoid sitting in the sun the whole trip. 

I'd really do this job a lot better if I 
were twins. You see, when Jerry's playing 
a date in New York, Miami, Atlantic City 
or Chicago, I try to be with him most of 
the week. Then I'll hop a plane for Holly- 
wood, spend the weekend at home with the 
children — and, on Monday morning, I'm 
flying again, headed back to Jerry. 

When Jerry's in Las Vegas, I spend al- 
most more time in the air than I do on the 
ground. I fly home Friday afternoon, pick 
up the children, and fly back to Las Vegas 
with them that evening. The five of us 
spend a wild, wonderful weekend together. 
Then, on Sunday night, I fly back home 
with them. Monday morning finds me once 
more in the air, streaking toward Las 
Vegas and Jerry. My friends tell me I'd 
save myself a lot of time and trouble if 
I'd let the nurse bring the children up on 
the plane, or take them back home. But, 
for some crazy reason, I can't bear the 
thought of them getting on a plane unless 
I'm there to watch over them. 

It's a good thing I like flying and the 
delicious food they always serve. I can 
sneak in a snooze or catch up on my read- 
ing — and I'm soon on the ground again. 

1 his flitting about the country is very 
exciting, because I get a chance to meet 
new people all the time and, most im- 
portantly, I have the chance to share in 
Jerry's happiness doing the work he loves 
so much. Naturally, I love puttering around 
my house in the Pacific Palisades, but the 
house means nothing to me without my 
husband. However, when he and the chil- 
dren and I are all together in our beautiful 
home, then my world is complete! 

When Jerry is playing a date in New 
York, for instance, we take a small apart- 
ment at the Essex House. It has a tiny 
kitchen, and I bought an electric frying 
pan to use there. When we come home 
from the last show, I fix up some scrambled 
eggs, or Jerry's favorite tomato-and-cheese 
sandwiches, and we make like newlyweds 
all over again. This last time, before I left 
Jerry to come home for a weekend with 
the children, I cooked up a big casserole 
of chicken the way he likes it best. I left 
it in the refrigerator, so that, when he 
got home late at night, he could have his 
after-show snack just as he likes it, even 
though I wasn't there. 

A lot of people have made comments, 
both in print and out, about how I 
shouldn't "mother" Jerry so much. This al- 
ways makes me smile a little. If folks 
would just think a bit, they'd realize that, 
in any successful marriage, the wife does 
a spot of mothering. Maybe more, maybe 
less of it. It all depends on how much of 
it the husband requires. 

One of the responsibilities of any mother 
— whether a loi/e-mother or a mother- 
mother — is to see that her "offspring" 
matures, grows self-sufficient and able to 
meet life head-on by himself. This is not 
easy, believe me. The fact that Jerry has 
matured magnificently in the thirteen years 
we've been married is a matter of con- 
siderable pride to me. Not that it's all due 
to my direction — actually, only a very 
small part of it can I claim credit for. But 
the satisfying part is that he has matured. 
T Even more satisfying, he realizes this fact, 
v and realizes what part I played in his 
* maturing. His giving me credit, and not 
taking me for granted, makes it all very, 
very worth while. 
76 



There's been a lot written in the last few 
months about Jerry's "new maturity." 
Condensed into a few well-written para- 
graphs, it sounds like a fairly rapid, rela- 
tively painless metamorphosis, and an ex- 
citing one at that. And the impression 
probably is that I must have been mighty 
thrilled to have a front-row-center seat 
while the whole admirable change was go- 
ing on. 

Oh, I was thrilled, all right. In fact, I 
don't suppose there's anyone who gets 
more deep and abiding satisfaction out of 
the new look in Jerry's eyes, the look 
which says, in a surprised way, "Hey, I'm 
me, Jerry Lewis — a Something, and they 
like me!" 

I fell in love with, and married, a won- 
derful, wild boy of eighteen. I expected 
him to grow up, soon, into a wonderful 
(and probably still wild) man. But he kept 
on being a boy. It took Jerry nearly nine 
years to grow up to be that man. I'd have 
been inhuman if I hadn't run out of 
patience with him, now and then, along 
the way. 

In fact, I am not always a patient woman, 
really. I can blow up as easily as anyone. 
But — when you love a man, and really try 
to understand him — you find within your- 
self funds of patience you never dreamed 
existed. That is why, I suppose, I've been 
able to put up with most of the zany things 
this Lewis guy has pulled, over the years. 

Oh, I won't say I've never been mad at 
him. After all, I'm Italian by birth, and 
no one ever accused Italians of being 
placid, stolid, phlegmatic creatures. But, 
just when he's made me simply furious, 
he'll do something funny — and I can't de- 
cide whether to laugh or cry. I don't know 
how many times I've snapped at him, "Get 
out of this room, you big lug, until I decide 
whether I'm going to laugh at you or cry 
over you!" 

I don't know why I bother, really. I 
almost always end up laughing. 

Some of the "mads" didn't always end 
up with laughter ... at least, not right 
away. A couple of times, I even walked out 
on him. But only to be able to get far 
enough away to cool off, to think things 
over. I always realized what had made 
him act as he did. And I always figured 
that, if I'd be patient just a little while 
longer, he'd make it! And he did. Looking 
back, even those rough spots seem well 
worth while, now. 

Most of my "mads" have been caused 
by the way Jerry drives himself. He isn't 
really well, you know. He was in bed for 
seventy-two days last year, with hepatitis. 
And he's got the kind of heart which is 
sensitive to nicotine. So he drinks very 
little, and smokes only lightly. But, in 
other ways, he abuses himself. 

When he was playing his date at the 
Palace in New York last winter, for in- 
stance. . . . The last show was over at 
eleven P.M., and we'd sit around in the 
dressing room for a while, waiting for him 
to cool off, and for the stage-door crowd 
to thin out. We could have made it back 
to the apartment by one A.M., easily. But 
no — most of the time, he'd want to go out 
to a night club, where we'd sit and talk 
shop with some other show-business peo- 
ple until all hours. Even if we did go to 
the apartment, he was all for sitting up 
and talking, or watching television, until 
three or four o'clock. 

I worked out a pretty good system, 
though, for that one. Whenever I could get 
him back to the apartment right after the 
show, I'd casually suggest, "Hey, why don't 
you climb into bed and watch television, 
while I fix you a snack?" Just getting him 
into bed was the trick. Once between the 



sheets, he was off to sleep in five minutes. 
Half the time he wouldn't even stay awake 
long enough to eat the snack I'd fixed. 

It's really easier when he's making a 
picture. Then he's at home for several 
months at a time. He goes off to the studio 
fairly early in the morning, but he's home 
for dinner nearly every evening. 

We have a quiet dinner, generally alone. 
That's because Jerry gets home from the 
studio about seven, and Gary and Ronnie 
are always "starved" by five or five-thirty. 
So it's just simpler to see to their dinner 
when they want it. Besides, this gives 
Jerry and me a few precious minutes alone 
together. There are few enough of these in 
any household with children — and, what 
with all the extra distractions our house- 
hold groans under, we must snatch these 
■ times when we can. The boys are generally 
deeply involved in one of their early- 
evening TV shows at this hour, and don't 
mind waiting until after dinner for their 
romp with Dad. 

When Jerry and the children romp in 
the living room, Mommy is always called 
upon to act as referee. I'm also the "official 
pianist" when they have a singing contest. 
And when they go off for baseball in the 
lot next door, I'm always on hand to 
applaud a good catch or a well-hit ball. 
Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to 
see my two sons and husband enjoying 
themselves together, and I can't wait for 
the day when Scotty is old enough to join 
in the fun. My being with them means my 
little family circle is complete. 

Once the boys are packed off to bed, we 
settle down — like 'most every married 
couple across the country — with the paper, 
the new magazines which came in the mail 
that day, a new book, and the television. 
Once in a while, Jerry will have a script 
to study. But, most of the time, he stretches 
out on the couch, and watches television. 

The difference here is that we are doing 
something which, to us, is sheer luxury! 
Because — to the Jerry Lewises — it amounts 
to Behaving Like People. It's a welcome 
change from the mad routine of night-club 
or theater appearances, when evenings are 
spent sweating out the hours between 
shows in dreary dressing rooms. 

Like half the husbands in the country, 
Jerry never gets to see how the late movie 
ends — he falls asleep halfway through. As 
a matter of fact, he's lucky if he sees how 
the late movie begins. It's not unusual for 
him to conk out before the ten-o'clock 
news. I sit there and read, or watch, until 
I'm sleepy. Then, I generally just take a 
robe, cover him snugly, and off to bed I 
go. I swear I never make any noise, and I 
leave the television set going so that the 
sudden silence won't waken him. But he 
seems to sense when I've left the room. 
Five minutes after I've crawled into bed, 
he trails right along. 

I don't think he ever really wakes up 
then, even so. He undresses all the way 
from the den to the bedroom — you can 
track him next morning by the trail of 
shoes, socks, et cetera. I must remember, 
some night, to cross him up, hide out 
somewhere, and watch that sleep-walking 
strip-tease. I'll bet it's as funny as any of 
his on-stage acts. 

Anyway . . . the times he's in Holly- 
wood making a picture — like when he was 
here last winter doing "Delicate Delin- 
quent" and, this spring, working on "Sad 
Sack" (both down on the Paramount lot) — 
are the happiest for all of us. 

Leading the kind of a life I do — part of 
the time at home and part of the time on 
the road — can be pretty rough. I don't 
mind the temporary quarters we put up 



with when Jerry's playing a date some- 
where . . . actually, they're generally quite 
comfortable, even luxurious. I don't mind 
sitting backstage in the drafty wings while 
he does a show — this is a thrill which will 
never wear thin for me. The only heart- 
ache for me is having half of me, my chil- 
dren, separated from me by the width of a 
continent. And at a time in their lives 
when every minute away from them means 
I'm missing some of the fun of watching 
them grow up. They get away from you 
too fast as it is, these days, without your 
missing great chunks of their life, as I 
must. 

But Jerry needs me too — and when I do 
come home to be with the children for a 
while, I still feel like half a person, want- 
ing to be where he is. I tell you, it could 
tear you in two, if you'd let it! 

The boys are getting old enough now 
that they miss Jerry terribly when he's 
gone. The last time I flew back to New 
York to join Jerry, after spending a week- 
end with the boys, Gary (who's eleven 
and a-half now) handed me an envelope. 
"I wrote Dad a note. Will you give it to 
him?" I promised that I would and, since 
it was sealed, I didn't read it but handed 
it over to Jerry unopened. 

I thought poor Dad would weep when he 
finished reading the note, so painstakingly 
written in Gary's still unformed scrawl. It 
was all about how he missed his dad, but 
how he knew it was necessary for him to 
be away from home to make our living. 
And it wound up: "But no matter how far 
away you are, somehow I feel you are al- 
ways near me!" 

Everyone always comments on Gary's 
resemblance to Jerry. That resemblance is 
more than physical — Gary is a terrific ham, 
"onstage" every chance he gets. He has a 
wonderful sense of timing, for a youngster, 
and I'll admit he's clowned his way out of 
some discipline due him, now and then. 
Ronnie (now seven) is very different — we 
like to think he's the "brain" of our trio. 
In the curious way adopted children often 
have, of becoming like their adoptive par- 
ents, he is beginning to look a little like 
Jerry, too. And he tries so hard to be the 
comic, mimicking Jerry and Gary. We 
laugh at the proper places, but Jerry al- 
ways reminds him, "You're going to be 
the lawyer in the family!" 

Now that they're growing up, they need 
Jerry more and more. Boys that age begin 
to have a fairly low opinion of being dom- 
inated by a woman all the time. I suppose 
they think, in their new maturity, that it's 
"sissy" to take orders from a woman. 
Which is not to say that the boys don't 
mind me, or that they resent me. They 
mind as well or as badly as the average, I 
suppose. And the times they "resent" me 
are the times any small male will resent 
any grown female issuing edicts. But with 
Jerry, it's different. Dad can do no wrong 
— all his decisions are as wise as Solomon's. 
And, if he says something, that's it! Final, 
period, amen. 

Jerry has trained me to the point where 
I can make decisions for the boys when 
he's not around and, since I have great 
respect for my husband's opinions, I try 
to do what I feel he would wish done. But 
when a problem gets especially tough for 
me, I simply pick up the phone, with both 
my sons on extensions, and we talk it out 
as though we were all in the same room. 
Other times, when Jerry and I are both in 
New York, Gary knows that all he needs 
to do is phone us, if he gets lonesome or 
wants to ask some important question 
(such as can he go to the movies on a 
school night) . At any rate, it all works out 
beautifully and there are no hard feelings. 

I try to toss in as many "substitutes" as 
I can. This last weekend, for instance, I 
took Gary and a pal to Disneyland for a 



merry, mad day. Ronnie was supposed to 
be in the party, but he carelessly picked 
up a virus the day before and felt so rocky 
that, at his own suggestion, he was given 
a rain-check and stayed behind. The boys 
had fun, that was obvious. Except I kept 
• thinking how much more fun they might 
have had if we all could have gone. 

Jerry realizes the way he has had to 
short-change the boys. And he's working 
toward the time when he can spend the 
bulk of the year out here, with only oc- 
casional engagements at other places. 

It isn't easy for him, either, being sepa- 
rated from the boys. Far from it. If any- 
thing, I think he misses home more than 
I do, when we're away. Because this is 
the first real, solid, permanent-type home 
he's ever known. This is the first tightly- 
knit, comfortable family relationship he's 
enjoyed. When I wave goodbye to him in 
New York, you've never seen anything 
look so forlorn and all alone. 

In fact, Jerry wrote just the other day 
that he'd got so horribly lonesome he'd 
gone out and bought a dog, just to have 
something alive in the apartment when he 
came home at night. Of course, we already 
have six dogs, one cat, and assorted other 
livestock the boys have accumulated — so 
we really needed that dog! But I under- 
stand how Jerry probably did need it . . . 
temporarily! 

So now, when I go back to New York, 
I'll have Jerry, and the baby, and the dog, 
to take care of . . . and you know what? 
I'll love it. It's fun, watching Jerry with 
that baby. As everyone knows perfectly 
well, we were absolutely sure No. 3 would 
be a girl. But I say now that I think the 
good Lord had a hand in it. He knew 
Jerry simply couldn't survive having a 
girl-baby. Jerry's delirious enough about 
this boy-baby — and I've heard all about 
how dads behave with daughters! 

Viewers who have never known a come- 
dian off-stage probably grow to think of 
him as a buffoon, with never a care in his 
head, with a quip and a laugh from break- 
fast to midnight snack. But from all I can 
gather, after thirteen years' experience, 
comedians (at least, my comedian) are 
probably the most sensitive, the moodiest, 
and the most sentimental characters in a 
business peopled by sensitive, moody, sen- 
timental people. Not just Jerry. Most co- 
medians are like that. And if, like Jerry, 
they're in the process of proving them- 
selves, of making their name and establish- 
ing their reputation — then the sensitivity, 
the moodiness, and the sentimentality all 
go double. 

I sometimes wonder what it would be 
like to be married to a man with an even 
disposition. One who wakes up every 
morning feeling placid, and relaxed, and 
rested. One who neither goes off into gales 
of laughter, nor nears the point of hunting 
out an open window in the Empire State 
Building. I think about it . . . and then I 
decide it would probably be pretty dull, 
being married to someone like that. 

Because, in the last thirteen years, I 
have crawled up out of the deepest, black- 
est holes with Jerry, watched him fight his 
way out of frighteningly depressing moods, 
had him cry on my shoulder more than 
once. And I have watched him come off 
stage positively glowing with happiness, 
because some warm, wonderful audience 
loved every clowning moment he was on. 

I've hit the bottom, at times, during those 
thirteen years. But, more important, I've 
had more chances at the top. And I 
wouldn't trade any one of those thirteen 
up-and-down years for a lifetime with 
some placid, smooth- sailing type. 

Being married to a comedian may not 
guarantee 365 days a year full of laughter. 
But it can guarantee 365 days annually 
without a dull one in the lot! 



^ 



Write it for the TRUE ROMANCE 
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Your collaborator will be the com- 
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Johnny Green 

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AT NEWSSTANDS NOW 



77 



(Continued from page 42) 
have this shade hair and that color eyes — 
bunk! The only color eyes I don't care 
for on a girl is red. That means she's been 
crying or dissipating too much. What 
counts with me is the ■way those eyes 
behave. I go for eyes that look straight at 
you and try to understand what you're 
saying. That flirty sidelong stuff with the 
fluttery lids — well, that's for the birds!" 
Taking Tommy at his word that he 
favors no one type, it is interesting to 
gaze into the crystal ball and try to see 
what sort of girl is likely to dominate his 
future. Three girls are known to have 
been closely linked to him at one time 
or another. Are there any traits they have 
in common? In what respects are they 
different? How do they add up when 
their personalities are crossed to form 
a composite image? In short, Who is the 
girl in Tommy's future? 

Lynn Trosper of Greenwood, Louisiana, 
was only three when she caught the eye of 
our young hero. Tommy was then four. 
They took part in a wedding shower and 
were given the pleasant duty of wheeling 
in the gifts. It must have touched a chord. 
They promptly invented a marriage of their 
own. As with all well- wed couples, Tommy 
went out to earn the wherewithall — "the 
fanciest collection of mud pies ever seen" 
— while his bride "poured tea" in regal 
splendor. 

Lynn was his first true love, and he be- 
came a standard fixture at the spacious, 
dignified Trosper home, which he still 
calls "the big house." Now, what sort of 
girl is Lynn? She is a blue-eyed brown- 
ette, an active and studious type quick to 
laughter or sympathy, poised but pert. 
Like her mother, Mrs. Florence Trosper, 
she shows a capacity for being both a 
homemaker and a community leader 
devoted to causes that transcend her per- 
sonal interests. She is equally at home 
on a horse, in a drawing room or at a 
library. With it all, she has a certain air 
of breeding and awareness of her pre- 
rogatives that stamp her at once as the 
best type of "young Southern lady." At 
nineteen, she attends Shreveport Cen- 
tenary College and toys with tike idea of 
becoming a teacher. "Whatever I'll finally 
do," she says, "I'll do it with all that's in 
me." 

An intriguing sidelight was cast on this 
girl when she was interviewed with re- 
gard to her childhood romance. "What do 
you think of your Tommy now?" she was 
asked. "My Tommy?" she echoed, puzzled. 
Lynn broke into a hearty laugh, "Here 
in Greenwood and Shreveport, we think 
of him as our Tommy. He's a credit to 
all of us already, as we like to think we 
have some small share in his career. As 
for romance, I know I teased him dread- 
fully as a child — but we're too much like 
brother and sister for anything like that." 
Tommy's second flame was cute Betty 
Moers, also brown-haired and blue-eyed. 
Presently completing her education in 
Houston, she is the daughter of a success- 
ful physician, Dr. Arthur Moers, whose 
wife still enjoys working as receptionist 
and assistant in her husband's office. 
Betty is very likely to follow her mother's 
example and seek the satisfaction of 
work well done. She first crossed Tommy's 
path on a blind date while they were 
juniors at Lamar High School. Light- 
hearted, witty and deliciously feminine 
in dress and manner, Betty was described 
T by a former classmate as "getting her full 
v portion of wolf whistles when she comes 
• tripping by — but get this straight, they're 
respectful wolf whistles!" Her laughter 



The Girl Tommy Marries 

feeling with gaiety. Her soft voice prom- 
ises a relaxed and earnest conversation, 
and her trim figure reveals the skillful 
grace of a trained dancer. For Betty has 
studied modern dance and, in fact, she 
performed in "Annie," the high-school 
musical that starred Tommy Sands. 

From her father, Betty has apparently 
inherited an unusual reserve of energy 
and will. Once she has explored the facts 
and drawn a conclusion based on them, 
she will act and act firmly. It was this 
quality that decided her against going 
on with her dating of Tommy. By her own 
account, she found it hard to adjust to be- 
ing the girl friend of a young entertainer 
who had to "be here today and there 
tomorrow," and who obviously was be- 
coming a target for scores of smitten girls. 

Their parting was an unforgettable and 
heartbreaking experience. It points sig- 
nificantly at the words in Tommy's hit 
song, "Don't call it a teen-age crush." To 
Betty and Tommy, it was far more than 
that. Talking about it now, Tommy's face 
saddens. "You know what's hit me as the 
most awful thing about life?" he says, "It's 
the way we can get used to 'most anything. 
We learn to live with our disappointments 
and troubles — and, after a while, we even 
get to believe it all happened for the best. 
Maybe!" 

And Betty, with her clear blue eyes 
and clever laugh? She, too, adds a quiet, 
"Maybe . . ." and goes on to explain: 
"You see, Tommy was lucky in finding 
himself so early. He knew as a child that 
he'd stick with show business. But I'm 
still searching, groping ... I could never 
be satisfied to be nothing but a tiny part 
of a husband's career. I want to be some- 
one on my own, to achieve something. 
Sometimes I look at the compact-cigarette 
case Tommy gave me when we were going 
steady. And I wonder — what if he had been 
a law student or a young newspaperman, 
instead of an entertainer always on the 
go? Would things have turned out dif- 
ferently? But then, if Tommy had been 
any different, I'd probably not have felt 
so deeply about him. No, I wouldn't want 
to change him or have him change be- 
cause of me. And I couldn't be anything 
but the girl I am, without losing self- 
respect. So maybe, when all's said and 
done, it did happen for the best." 

Like the Trospers, Betty and her family 
still retain their fondness for Tommy 
and consider him "one of us." As Betty 
puts it, "He will always be a very special 
thing to us. And, whoever she may be, the 
girl that gets Tommy will get a very rare 
fellow. He has a heart as great as his 
talent, and he will do his level best to 
make his wife and family happy." 



78 



is contagious and seems to combine deep 



More Vacation Music 

Exciting new stories and pictures of 

POLLY BERGEN 
CAROL RICHARDS 

of The Bob Crosby Show 
ana' 

COUNTRY MUSIC COMES TO TOWN! 

all in the August issue of 

TV RADIO MIRROR 

at your newsstand July 5 



So much for the past. What now? Is 
there any girl at present who might sum 
up — as Lynn and Betty did in earlier 
stages — the way his taste is turning? Just 
what sort of girls does he favor for his 
dates? Well, first it must be said that 
Tommy has had little opportunity to date 
at all during his year in Hollywood. At 
first, he was kept "on the jump," making 
the rounds of producers, agents, and stu- 
dios, trying with furious zeal to get his 
foot in the door. Now, he is being pulled 
this way and that by people who press 
him to go on various TV and radio shows, 
to cut more records, to do movies, to make 
personal appearances, to take and auto- 
graph pictures, to give more time to his 
mushrooming fan clubs, to hold more 
interviews with the press, and so on. 

The only girl in filmland he has dated 
with some regularity is Molly Bee. The 
teen-aged blond singer, who has lent both 
glamour and gusto to Cliffie Stone's Home- 
town Jamboree and the Tennessee Ernie 
Ford Show, is the most spectacular of 
Tommy's dates — perhaps because her pro- 
fession requires her to be spectacular. For 
what it is worth to those who have been 
watching this pair for a sign of budding 
romance, Molly was our young man's 
choice as his companion the night he 
sang "Thee I Love" (from "The Friendly 
Persuasion") at the Oscar awards show. 
On the other hand, aside from her blue 
eyes, Molly does not conform to the pat- 
tern Tommy has followed in his dates up 
to now. She is as colorful as the toreador 
pants she loves to swank about in, and 
her performances usually bring forth a 
hail of tributes that abound in words like 
"sparkling" and "zippy." This is especi- 
ally nice for her, since she still likes to 
present herself and her songs with a 
country flavor, like champagne poured 
from a cider jug. 

It is always hard to foresee the course 
of a young man's fancy. Every month is 
liable to produce a new variation or 
change. If this is true, then Molly Bee 
may signify a turn in the path Tommy 
has been taking. But — if his taste runs 
true to form — then the girl in the crystal 
ball may emerge along these lines: 

Physically, she is likely to prove small, 
cute, blue-eyed and dainty. She will 
probably be graceful in her movements, 
quietly musical in her speech, and poised 
in her manner. She will undoubtedly be 
the type who attracts attention for her 
ladylike taste and bearing over and above 
beauty, exotic clothes or stunning hairdos. 
It is worth mentioning here that, at the 
Oscar awards, he expressed his admiration 
in public for Deborah Kerr, who is uni- 
versally esteemed for her knack of pro- 
jecting allure without losing gentility. 

The girl of Tommy's choice — providing 
he doesn't change — will also be of an 
independent frame of mind. She may or 
may not be a career woman, but she 
certainly will have a serious concern with 
matters of artistic, social-welfare, political 
or even religious scope. She will have an 
exquisite sense of humor and a fine edu- 
cation or professional training. It is more 
than likely she will make his home a 
castle of family security and of release 
from the tensions of work. As Tommy 
himself puts it, "No matter how far my 
work takes me, I'm the pigeon who'll 
always fly home to roost." 

Quite surely, the future Mrs. Tommy 
Sands will be the kind of woman who can 
walk with charm, tact and determination 
on any level of society at any time — the 
kind whose proud husband will always 
know that people are saying, "That lady 
is his wife . . ." 



M 



WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST COAST 



(Continued from page 9) 



We are going to be stuffed with fairy 
tales until they come out of our pink 
ears. NBC is readying Pinocchio, Pied 
Piper and Hans Brinker. CBS will 
lead off with Aladdin. And Shirley 
Temple will narrate, probably on NBC- 
TV, twenty hour-long fairy tales. Cow- 
boys, crime and fairy tales. 

Battin' the Breeze: Those delighted 
with Anne Jeffreys and hubby Bob 
Sterling in Topper will be delighted to 
hear they're shooting a new comedy 
series. . . . All of the La Rosa buddies 
distressed by premature loss of baby. 
. . . Plan to stay home night of No- 
vember 25th. Mary Martin stars in the 
jubilant "Annie Get Your Gun." . . . 
Isn't Durward Kirby prime to do an 
audience participation show of his 
own? . . . Wonderful Martha Wright 
named her newborn "Mike" after her 
husband's nickname. Hubby is res- 
taurateur George "Mike" Manuche.. . . 
Martha Raye enthusiastic about pilot 
film starring her as Baby Snooks, the 
character created by Fanny Brice. 

About Men Only: Jack Lescoulie wrote 
himself a Broadway-type play. . . . 
Sam Levenson says, "A joke isn't a 
joke until they laugh." . . . Rumor rife 
that Gordon MacRae may head a musi- 
cal variety for Lux next fall in addition 
to his emcee chores on Video Theater. 
. . . Jimmy Dean, star emcee of CBS- 
TV Country Style, angry at inference 
he's chosen his name to cash in on 
fame of actor James Dean. Jimmy (the 



live one) was born in Plainfield, Texas, 
1928, and christened "Jimmy Dean" and 
has been singing professionally as such 
since 1948. . . . John Cameron Swayze, 
also, says it isn't so. He denies using 
a tie once and discarding it. He's just 
as thrifty as the next man. . . . One who 
admits it "is so" is Lionel Wilson, 
bachelor actor. Lionel admits that al- 
most at any time he is up to a hundred 
different voices on the air. On many 
of those cartoon commercials, Lionel 
is all of the voices. On toothpaste ads, 
for example, he is both the villain (Mr. 
Decay) and the hero (Mr. Toothpaste). 
He's both rabbits for a laundry starch 
and a couple million other things for 
other commercials. He has starred in 
several Broadway plays and acted in 
Valiant Lady, Search For Tomorrow 
and practically all of the top dramatic 
shows. On radio, he once did a perfect 
imitation of Ilona Massey's sultry sex- 
tones while continuing as the private 
eye in the same script. That was on 
NBC's Top Secret. Lionel, a very 
eligible bachelor, counts among his 
close friends Jimmy Kirkwood and 
Kathy McGuire and Dolores Sutton. 
He lives alone in a Manhattan apart- 
ment, although he was born right across 
the river in Brooklyn. "I got a lucky 
start as an actor," he says. "It was my 
luck that our neighbor in Brooklyn 
was a professional acting coach. She 
took me in hand and made my career." 
In the new CBS-TV Terrytoon series, 
Tom Terrific, Lionel does every voice 
you hear, fifty-two in all. 




Old-time radio detectives, seen yesteryear (above) and 
today — Staats Cotsworth (Casey, Crime Photographer), 
Bret Morrison (The Shadow), Lon Clark (Nick Carter) — 
re-created roles on Mysterytime, with host Don Dowd. 



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79 



Families Are Fun 



(Continued from page 44) 
that is so important to Bud, whether it 
applies to contestants on his shows, to 
his own professional life, his family life 
with his pretty actress-wife, Marian 
Shockley, and the three Collyer children 
... or to the class of sixty-five teenagers, 
from about fifteen to eighteen, which he 
teaches every Sunday at the First Presby- 
terian Church in Greenwich, Connecticut 
— where he also serves as Sunday school 
superintendent. 

About contestants, Bud says: "When I 
see them backstage, before I go on to do 
the show, I have always tried in that 
brief time to leave them with one thought. 
You came here to have fun, I remind them, 
so enjoy whatever happens." 

It never ceases to amaze — and please — 
him that losers, as well as winners, tell him 
what a good time they had . . . the fun 
being not so much in the winning, pleasant 
as that may be, but in the doing. "When 
you remind people that no one can win 
at everything, every time, but everyone 
can enjoy trying, they understand. It's 
one of the ideas we can apply to life, as 
well as to contests." 

At home — although the Collyers are a 
serious-minded group, with respect for 
family," church and civic responsibilities, 
and the responsibilities toward their coun- 
try which they share with all good citi- 
zens—this spirit of fun and of joy runs 
through all the various personal and col- 
lective activities. "Marian and I and the 
children try to keep to simple solu- 
tions of the problems that come up," says 
Bud. "So many people tend to make 
their problems more complex than they 
were at the start. Perhaps one of the rea- 
sons we've had no so-called 'teen-age 
problems' in our home — although the three 
kids fall into that age group — is that we 
never built up such problems. Not Marian, 
not I, not the children themselves. We 
enjoy one another, and every phase of 
the children's lives has been a challenge 
to all of us." 

About teenagers in general, Bud says: 
"I sometimes think it would be a help if 
we were to drop that word teenager. It 
has been so over-emphasized, often so 
adversely. Teenagers are really young 
adults, still closer to the simple and direct 
truths than most of us older adults are. 
They haven't yet begun to rationalize 
everything. I never close a Sunday school 
year without telling the students how 
much I thank them for what they have 
taught me. I always learn more than I 
teach." 

Even too much organized teen-age ac- 
tivity seems unnecessary to Bud, believing 
as he does that kids are happiest when 
they are doing the things which arise 
naturally out of their daily lives at school 
and among their own friends, and which 
are the outgrowth of their own bents and 
talents. "Equally important," he empha- 
sizes, "they want to be allowed to join 
now in more of their parents' activities, 
to be accepted on a more adult level. It's 
a time to make the change from the child's 
dependence on the parent to the child's 
need of the friendship of the parent." 

Pat, short for Patricia, the eldest of the 
Collyer children, is nineteen now, ready to 
begin her sophomore year at Sweet Briar 
College, Virginia. Cynthia, 17, is a high- 
school student. So is Michael Clayton, 15, 
known to all as "Mike." The name "Clay- 
ton" is for Bud's lawyer-father. It's Bud's 
first name, too, though a German nurse 
T he had as an infant called him "Brother," 
v which soon became "Bud," and stuck — 
R about the only place he ever sees the more 
formal name now is on documents, such 
as his law degree from Fordham Uni- 
80 



versity, his various other diplomas and 
some legal papers. 

The kids are all different, in disposition, 
personality and talents. Pat is already a 
fine pianist and is emphasizing music at 
college, but only as part of a well-rounded 
academic course. Cynthia is an artist who 
plans to get more specialized art training 
when she finishes high school. Mike's 
present announced plans are to work so 
hard that he can ultimately enter the new 
air college in Denver, his goal being ad- 
vanced work in aero-dynamics. 

If anyone in the family is likely to 
turn to show business eventually, it 
might be Cynthia. Show business is in 
her background, 'way back. Bud's grand- 
father was actor Dan Collyer, Bud's 
mother was an actress and his father 
an accomplished amateur musician. His 
sister, June Collyer Erwin, wife of Stu 
Erwin, is, of course, a well-known per- 
former, and their brother Richard is now 
in the production end of films for televi- 
sion. Bud himself started singing on radio 
when he was still in college and then 
turned to acting, before becoming famous 
as a quizmaster. 

"Cynthia is the family clown," he says 
of his younger daughter. "She keeps 
everyone laughing, has a talent for the 
comic pose, the well-timed line, the quick 
quip, the funny gesture." Her art work 
hangs in a permanent gallery in their 
upstairs hall, a revolving exhibition 
changed at least twice yearly. She is 
developing a fine singing voice and, when 
she takes her place now in the adult choir 
of their church on Sunday morning, Bud 
glances over at her from his place in the 
choir and smiles proudly, as he used to 
smile at Pat when she sat down at the 
piano. All the children have been in their 
dad's Sunday school class, Mike being 
the present incumbent. 

"The best way to describe Mike is to 
say that here is a kid who will never have 
an ulcer," Bud says fondly. "My son is 
easygoing, loves people, loves life, and — 
like all the kids — loves and believes in 
God. He has humor. He has a great 
personal sense of courage, and he also has 
great gentleness. Only those who are 
aware of their real strength can be really 
gentle, and Mike has both these qualities. 
My wife has that combination of inner 
strength and outward gentleness. It 
shines out in her relationship with the 
family and with our friends, and it 
shines out in her professional work as 
an actress. Marian has gone back to 
dramatic work on radio recently — al- 
though only briefly — but she talks about 
doing more as the children grow up, one 
by one." 

Mike has a musical bent, in addition to a 
mathematical mind. Bud has given him 
his own banjo and guitar and is teaching 
Mike to play them, while father himself 
has decided to take piano lessons. "Just for 
playing popular music," Bud hastens to add. 



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"I'm not going into competition with Pat." 

The children have practically grown up 
in the fourteen-room house at the top of a 
hill in Greenwich, Connecticut. It's a rep- 
lica of a French-Norman farmhouse, 
complete with a round tower, and every 
part of it is dear to the Collyers. The 
mere mention of ever giving it up and 
moving to a smaller place raises cries of 
anguish. Cynthia threatens to save every 
cent of her own, present and future — or 
deliberately to marry someone, anyone, 
with the means to buy it! — if Bud so much 
as intimates that the place is getting too 
big for them. The years of growing up 
have been happy, and the house and all 
its memories are woven into that tapes- 
try. Secretly, Bud and Marian feel the 
same way. Bud says to Mike, "Let's take 
a walk," early on Saturday or Sunday. 
"Okay— where to?" Mike asks. "Oh, just 
around the place, to look at things," his 
dad answers, and off they go to circle the 
modest bit of property as if it were a 
many-acred estate. 

"Now that the children are growing up, 
we have passed the phase of having many 
pets," Bud starts to explain, and then 
belies his own words by introducing two 
French poodles, Jennie and Mark (for 
Black Market); one alley cat, adored ever 
since it was rescued as a tiny orphaned 
kitten from a barbed-wire fence and 
christened Orbus by Pat (then deep in 
Latin); two parakeets named Caesar and 
Pompey; two crested canaries named 
George and Penelope, with head feathers 
as unruly as a small boy's hair that no 
amount of coaxing and water can tame. 

A while back, Bud and a friend were 
discussing family life, and Bud bewailed 
the fact that the kids were growing up 
fast and wished he could be starting all 
over again and living through their child- 
hood. "Don't be silly," the other man 
said. "After a while, they will be really 
grown up and get married and have kids 
of their own, and then you'll have the 
fun of watching your grandchildren grow 
up — without any of the responsibilities." 
Bud's comment, later, was characteristic. 
"He didn't know what I wanted. All the 
fun — and, with it, all the responsibility. 
They belong together." 

Perhaps it is because Bud shares re- 
sponsibilities with his God that he doesn't 
mind them, or find them burdensome. 
"Man makes his own problems and then 
chooses the most complex ways to deal 
with them," he has said. In the Collyer 
family, problems are treated as such, but 
approached simply and directly. 

When one of the girls faced a difficult 
school examination and expressed fear 
about passing it, Marian reminded her to 
take her fears to God before she went to 
sleep that night. There were no specific 
instructions or advice, merely the sug- 
gestion that she talk it over and then leave 
it in God's hands. It seemed perfectly 
natural when the child mentioned, quite 
casually, at dinner next evening, "Oh, by 
the way, it worked. I could answer all 
the questions. I had no trouble remem- 
bering." Such incidents are common in a 
household where no one has ever been 
self-conscious about asking for or re- 
ceiving such help. 

On the other hand, there are no false 
ideas about expecting prayer to take the 
place of one's own courage and stamina 
and hard work, but only to help each one 
make better use of these qualities. "If 
you don't bet on yourself, you can't expect 
anyone else to bet on you," Bud tells his 
kids and his contestants. 

Sounds like pretty practical advice, 
doesn't it? For contestants, children — 
and even for parents! 



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81 



The Rock Rolls 'Round the World 



(Continued from page 54) 
continents, crossed the two great oceans 
twice, and entertained more than half a 
million people at their ninety -four shows 
in Australia and Great Britain. 

Had they accepted other invitations 
from European and South American 
countries, from lands as widely separated 
as Japan and Lebanon, they would still 
be going, non-stop. Yet this was no gov- 
ernment-sponsored tour. It cost no coun- 
try a cent of tax money. As Haley 
explains, "We paid out our money to 
travel, and the kids paid theirs to buy 
tickets. We all had fun." 

The overseas expedition began when 
seven young men, in matching pale cash- 
mere coats, caught a midnight plane at 
Los Angeles International Airport. Even 
at that anything-but-witching departure 
hour, people recognized The Comets. Their 
personal appearances, their films for Co- 
lumbia Pictures, "Rock Around the Clock" 
and "Don't Knock the Rock" — together 
with a total sale of twenty-two million 
records — had made them familiar figures. 

They were, of course, Bill Haley, guitar 
and bass; John Grande, accordion and 
piano; Billy Williamson, electric guitar; 
Al Rex, bass; Rudy Pompilli, sax; Fran 
Beecher, Spanish guitar; and Ralph Jones, 
drums. With them were their manager, 
James H. Ferguson; his seventy-seven- 
year-old mother, Charlotte S. Ferguson, 
who was bound for a Honolulu vacation; 
and bandboy Vincent J. Broomall, aged 
seventeen and known as "Catfish." 

The Comets found out how far their 
music and films had preceded them when 
their plane touched down to refuel, a day 
out of Hawaii. To the American rock 'n' 
rollers, the Fiji Islands were a remote and 
storied spot on the map. But, to natives 
and to the English colony alike, The 
Comets were, in an electronic age, old 
friends. 

What a reception they gave them! The 
path to the main building on the island 
was lit by torches on ten-foot poles. 
Sarong-wrapped natives led the way. The 
English entertained at cocktails. The na- 
tives prepared a South Sea Island feast. 
Fish and game were followed by strange 
but delicious fruits. The climax was a 
scene which had photo-fan Billy William- 
son wishing he could operate two cameras 
at once — and cut a sound track besides. 

"Man, you should have seen and heard 
it," says Billy. "When we went back to 
our plane, a native band headed the pro- 
cession, serenading us. Now, there was 
a beat and a sound for you! Maybe we'll 
get a bit of it into a recording of our own 
some day." 

There was dancing at the airport when 
they reached Australia. Welcoming The 
Comets, the fans presented a furry toy 
koala bear, a symbol which carries the 
same good -luck wish in Australia as a 
shamrock does in Ireland, or a horseshoe 
in the United States. The Comets named 
it Billy Koala. "We couldn't guess then 
how superstitious we were going to be 
about that charm," says Haley. "I carried 
Billy Koala as a photographic prop at 
first. Before long, we were rubbing his 
ear for luck at the start of every trip." 

Luck was all on their side at the big 
outdoor stadiums. The summer air, 
"down under," was mild, the fans enthusi- 
astic. In most cities, all seats were sold 
in advance and the box office never 

^ opened. The Comets chalked up the big- 

v gest attendance record ever achieved in 

R Australia. 

New to them as the country was, in 
one respect The Comets felt they had 

82 



never left home. "Everyone had things 
to say about those few show-offs who try 
to ruin a show for the rest of the crowd," 
says manager Jim Ferguson. "Such kids 
as Americans describe as 'juvenile delin- 
quents,' the Australians call 'Boogie- 
widgies.' The British have a phrase, too — 
'Teddy boys.' We heard about them, but 
that's all that happened." Haley says with 
satisfaction, "I trusted the kids and the 
kids trusted me. I've yet to see a rock 'n' 
roll riot." 

Possibly, it might be said that there 
was one "incident." Jim Ferguson grins as 
he tells it. "It is the custom there to 
close every performance by the singing of 
'God Save the Queen.' Then everyone 
goes home — but, in Brisbane, they didn't. 
The kids clapped and shouted until The 
Comets played another encore. People 
told us that had never happened before." 

It was on their return journey that the 
old earth and its elements first got into 
the act, seemingly intent on proving to 
The Comets that, in rock 'n' roll, it was 
still the champ. As friends and families 
waited to welcome them at New York's 
Idlewild Airport, that chill January night, 
a passenger agent scanned the cloudless 
sky and worried: "Chicago and Cleveland 
are closed down. We should be, too, right 
now. I can't understand what's hap- 
pened to that blizzard." 

The Comets knew. They had been 
through it. When they stepped out onto 
the landing stage, they were trying to 
clown. Each wore a vivid South Seas 
shirt and a palm-frond hat. Bill carried 
Billy Koala, perched on his shoulder. But 
it wasn't The Comets' usual kind of 
comedy. Shy "Cuppy" Haley, who had 
stayed back in the shadows, out of range 
of photographers, took one wifely look 
at her Bill, who was trying to pin a grin 
on a face blank with weariness, and moved 
forward, arms open. Unaware of popping 
flashbulbs, they held each other a long 
time. 

As The Comets claimed their baggage, 
Jim Ferguson muttered a low-voiced ex- 
planation: "The blizzard wasn't bad, but 
we got sort of beat up by a typhoon over 
the Pacific. The plane dropped flat, 
Heaven only knows how many thousand 
feet." 

The voyage to England had been 
planned as the big family vacation, a care- 
free five days aboard the Cunard luxury 
liner, the R.M.S. Queen Elizabeth. Four 
wives were making the trip: Cuppy 
Haley, Helen Grande, Kate Williamson, 
and Dot Jones. The youngest generation 
was represented by Linda Grande, 5, and 
Billy Williamson, Jr., 4; the eldest, by 
Mrs. Charlotte Ferguson. The Comets' 
agent, Jolly Joyce, of Philadelphia, and 
his wife, Smiles, were there. And, to give 
TV Radio Mirror readers a first-hand re- 
port, I was invited to come along, too. 

Everyone hit the deck dead tired. There 
had been an interval of only thirty-six 
hours between the landing of The 
Comets' plane at Idlewild and the time 
set for the Queen to cast off her lines. 
Driving in from Chester, they had fought 
fog and slick pavements. In New York, 
too, the clouds were down to street level. 
That "lost" blizzard had sent its har- 
bingers. 

At the gangplank, they learned they 
had another problem. Their luggage was 
on hand — but the second bandboy, who 
had brought it from Chester, had van- 
ished. He left a note: "I'm too much in 
love to leave my girl behind. God bless 
you all. ' See you later, Alligator." They 
were sailing short-handed. 



They also were informed that reporters 
were waiting for them in the ship's press 
room. They hurried up to the sun deck. 
In the midst of an interview for NBC's 
Monitor, a steward attempted to summon 
Haley to the purser's desk. Bill, on mi- 
crophone, waved him off. Photographers 
were taking pictures when the second 
steward appeared. He, too, was told, 
"Just a minute." The third steward broke 
right into the reporters' interview. The 
ship could not sail, he stated, until Mr. 
Haley reported to the purser's office. 

Trailing reporters, photographers, friends 
and business staff — as the original Halley's 
Comet trailed stars — the perplexed Bill 
took off. A stern official awaited him. 
Where, he demanded, was Mr. Haley's 
passport? 

Bill stared at him blankly. "It's in my 
overnight case. Harry West has it. With 
my ticket." Harry West, Bill's secretary 
who runs The Comets' office in Chester, 
is the kind of man who usually knows 
where anything is. This time, he didn't. 
"I don't have it, Bill. I've looked in 
everything. It isn't here." 

"You must find it," the official an- 
nounced. "It is illegal to sail without it. 
You'll have to leave the ship." 

"But I have it. I know I have it," Bill 
protested. "Maybe I left it in a desk 
drawer in the library." 

It was a dilemma. The Cunard crew 
knew, even better than The Comets, how 
many English youngsters would be hurt 
if Haley were left on shore. The poten- 
tial money loss, to many people, was 
great. The emotional loss would be 
greater. Two stewards appeared to re- 
move Bill's luggage. Everyone's face was 
somber. The champagne, forgotten, went 
flat in the glasses. 

Then Eddie Elkort, representative for 
General Amusement Corporation, had an 
inspiration. He phoned the State De- 
partment. A deputy director, young 
enough to remember how disappointed 
kids can be, cut red tape. He specified 
that a messenger should bring the Haley 
passport to Washington. The department 
would then air-mail it to England — it's 
illegal for an individual to send an Ameri- 
can passport through the mail. Just as 
the Queen Elizabeth's big whistles blasted, 
the word came through that Bill had 
emergency permission to sail. 

Ironically, all that fuss proved unnec- 
essary. Forty-five minutes later, at life- 
boat drill, Bill announced, "I found my 
passport." 

Still wrapped in life jackets, everyone 
gasped, "Where?" Bill's grin held a 
sheepishness any husband could under- 
stand. "Cuppy found it. Tangled in some 
clothes I hadn't unpacked since we came 
from Australia." 

Some intimation of the welcome which 
awaited Haley in England came from the 
ship's crew. Many told how their children 
had "queued up" all night, carrying ther- 
mos bottles and wrapped in blankets, 
waiting to buy tickets to the shows. Fur- 
ther indication came from the British 
press. Several London newspapers made 
calls to the ship every day. The largest, 
The Daily Mirror, had topped its rivals 
by flying a reporter to New York to re- 
turn to England with The Comets on the 
Queen Elizabeth. 

That reporter, Noel Whitcomb, was hip 
in both English and American idiom. In 
daily columns, he and Bill told how 
American teenagers had taught The Com- 
ets what music sent them: After they had 
worked out their basic big beat, they 
tried it out by playing for free at one 



hundred and eighty-three high schools 
in the Philade^hia area, watching the 
reaction. When The Comets took the kids' 
favorite expre^ion, "Crazy" — and added it 
to their footfall cheer, "Go! Go! Go!"— 
it turned into The Comets' first hit, "Crazy, 
Man, Crazy." With that, rock 'n' roll 
started its sweep of America and was on 
its way around the world. 

Of the triD itself — that long-sought 
"vacation" — the less said, the better. That 
much-delayed blizzard caught up, and 
gained an aHv from the Gulf Stream. We 
went through two hurricanes. A stabilizer 
went out of order. Off the coast of Ireland, 
one radar set was swept overboard, and 
the scanner o f the other was damaged. It 
could be that The Comets and their fami- 
lies, staunch sailors through it all, added 
a new term to the language of the sea. 
Where the crew of the Queen Elizabeth 
had originally described the ship's antics 
as "rolling and Ditching," they soon were 
remarking cheerfully, "She's a-rocking and 
rolling today." 

Jli very one was anxious to arrive in 
Southampton. It would be pleasant, all 
agreed, to have solid land under our feet 
again. As it turned out, solid land was 
what we darned near didn't have. The 
Comets knew that The Mirror was run- 
ning a special fan train from London to 
Southampton — but surely no single train 
could hold all the people v/ho lined that 
dock. As they caught sight of Bill and 
Cuppy, comine down the gangplank, their 
shout of "Haley!" was loud enough to 
drown out the ship's whistle, and that's 
quite a blast. 

From there on, it was frantic. In the 
customs shed, members of the company 
found themselves tugging at their own 
luggage. The dockers who were supposed 
to move it were following Haley. We 
struggled through crowds of adults, not 
kids, to make our way to a bus. We saw 
Bill make a try for the car which was to 

\ transport him. then fall back on the pro- 
tection of the oolice. He couldn't even 
open a door. Kids not only were on all 
sides of it, they were on top of it. Some- 
how, the bobbies cleared them off and the 

i car moved. 

At the train gates, the confusion doubled. 
Teenagers who had never before been so 
near their hero struggled to stay close. 
Police lines broke. Bill and Cuopy were 
separated. Buttons were snatched off Bill's 

| coat, his gloves from his hand, his over- 

] night case out of his grasp. One girl 
shrieked ecstatically, "I almost got his 
wedding ring." 

As we sped along toward London, it 

I was easy to think that this could have been 
the world's super-colossal publicity job, 
turning out all those teenagers. But no 
press agent in the world could have got 
workers to line up at the doorways of the 
factories we passed, just to wave at a 
train. Only one thing could do that. Bill 
Haley and His Comets, through their mo- 
tion pictures and recordings, must have 
brought a great deal of enjoyment to a 

| great many people. 

As the train inched into London's 
Waterloo Station, the British managers 

] organized the exit on the basis of "women 
and children last." By the glare of the 

i klieg lights which stabbed like beacons 

! through the cavernous place, we could 
see that every inch was filled with young- 
sters. Youngsters who, individually and 
collectively, had one objective: To see, 
I touch, talk to, and — most of all — seize a 
souvenir from Haley. Later, people called 
it "The Second Battle of Waterloo." 

As The London Daily Sketch described 
it, "Haley's car sped off between rows of 
police. Then it happened. The fans realized 
Haley was getting away. Within ten sec- 



onds they had surrounded his car — a solid 
wall of bodies, hundreds deep. The Haley 
car stopped dead. The mob pounded the 
windows. Two boys climbed on the roof. 
They were swept aside by policemen. Two 
more police jumped in front of the car 
and helped push a way through the waves 
of shrieking, rock-intoxicated teenagers. 
... It was the most triumphal procession 
ever given one man in peacetime." 

It was a scene to be repeated, with 
variations, in Dublin, in Glasgow, in 
Cardiff, and in all of England's major 
industrial cities. The particular situation 
which I shall never forget occurred in 
Coventry, England's equivalent of Detroit. 
Fans followed Bill back from the theater 
to the Leofric Hotel — "Europe's most 
modern." (It should be. Bombs, not bull- 
dozers, cleared its site.) 

A bit in the distance, one could see the 
staunch bell tower which refused to fall 
when Coventry Cathedral was bombed 
and burned to the ground. In the public 
square, where she finished her bare- 
backed ride in protest against an unfair 
tax imposed by her husband, stood the 
statue of Lady Godiva. And up on the 
balcony stood Bill Haley, waving to a 
crowd of at least a thousand teenagers 
who were serenading him by singing, 
"We're going to rock . . . right 'round the 
clock . . ." 

r or the real triumph had been Bill's. 
Despite the triumphal welcomes, he saw 
no riots. In the newspapers, he appealed 
to his fans, "Take it easy . . ." and they 
did. To stand at the back of the theater 
and watch the crowd, as well as The Com- 
ets, was a thrill for anyone who loves the 
theater. Together, they formed a single 
unit. One young fan expressed it best in a 
letter: "When my girl friend and I left 
the show, our throats were raw from 
singing and our hands were sore from 
clapping, but it was worth it. We never 
had such a good time in our lives." 

It wasn't an easy tour. The battle with 
the elements continued. After the typhoon 
in the Pacific, and the hurricanes in the 
Atlantic, came a landslide which forced 
the re-routing of that boat train from 
Southampton. The day The Comets left 
London for the provinces, the Thames 
flooded. In Coventry, an hour after they 
visited the Jaguar factory, a large portion 
of the plant burned. Immediately after 
their first show in Norwich, an earthquake, 
unprecedented in England, rocked the 
city. 

It may be that this tour was the point 
where rock 'n' roll grew up fast in public 
estimation and, like American jazz, turned 
respectable. It was the talk of London 
when the august Times devoted three- 
quarters of a column to a review which 
was written with charming humor and 
with an understanding which made the 
bandboy, Catfish, exclaim: "Hey! This 
cat digs us the most." When one news- 
paper, ever critical of Americans, head- 
lined, "Haley Go Home," another replied, 
"Don't go home, Bill Haley" — and stated, 
"Everyone's having fun . . . what's wrong 
with that?" 

In view of the way the Haley rock 'n' 
roll has gone around the world, it is 
pleasant to recall that The Comets' home 
town, Chester, lies just beyond earshot of 
the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia's Inde- 
pendence Square ... a bell which our 
founding fathers "rocked and rolled" un- 
til it cracked, the day they proclaimed 
the unalienable right — not only to life and 
liberty — but also to the pursuit of hap- 
piness. Happiness, as The Comets proved, 
is a traditional American export which 
too often is in short supply and will ever 
be in great demand, in all parts of the 
world. 




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INFORMATION BOOTH 

(Continued from page 13) 

United For Success 

Please tell us about the Mello-Larks, 

whom we see on Club 60 on NBC-TV. 

G. W. A., New York, N. Y. 

Show business may be like no other 
business, but the Mello-Larks found that 
one principle holds true for both: If you 
don't succeed when you're in business for 
yourself, try amalgamating .... A few 
years ago, Tommy Hamm was singing 
with Orrin Tucker and his orchestra, Joe 
Eich was vocalizing for Claude Thornhill 
and Bob Wollter was on Ken Murray's 
TV show. Tommy, who'd majored in busi- 
ness administration at the University of 
California, surveyed the economic situa- 
tion of the music business and concluded 
that big bands were giving way to small 
musical combos. He decided to form his 
own quartet, with himself as top tenor, 
and found eager partners in Joe, as second 
tenor, and Bob, as baritone. And Tommy's 
economics were right. In six months, the 
Mello-Larks were earning five times what 
their combined former salaries had 
been . . . The only sour note was that of 
trying to hang on to a girl singer. After 
a couple of weeks, Karen Chandler was 
snatched up by a record company. Peggy 
King, Edie Adams and Judy Tyler flew 
off in even less time. But, three years ago, 
the problem was solved. Jamie Dina left 
Vaughn Monroe's band to join the quartet, 
then married its leader, Tommy Hamm, to 
make it a lifetime contract. Bob Wollter, 
too. is wed. Joe Eich's the sole hold-out. 

Calling All Fans 

The following fan clubs invite new 
members. If you are interested, write to 
address given — not to TV Radio Mirror. 

Tommy Sands Fan Club, c/o Glenda 
Bigham, 4422 Begg Boulevard, North- 
woods 20, Missouri. 

Tim Considine Fan Club, c/o Barbara 
Lable, 77 Cedar Lane, Cheshire, Conn. 

Buddy Merrill Fan Club, c/o Judie 
Smyth. 2172 Fir Street, Wantagh. N. Y. 





Mello-Larks: Joe Eich and Bob 
Wollter and, in front, Tommy 
Hamm and wife Jamie Dina. 



Dane Clark, TV visitor to millions 
of homes, has three of his own. 



Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant . . . 

Could you write something about Dane 

Clark, star of ABC-TV's Wire Service? 

N. M., Tampa, Florida 

Dane Clark has been a star of theater, 
radio, the movies and TV for nearly a 
score of years. As Bernard Zanville, he 
was born and raised in Manhattan, went 
to college at Cornell and studied toward 
a law degree at St. John's in Brooklyn. 
After a major career reversal in 1935 
separated him from a steady job in a 
legal firm — the firm's senior member had 
a nephew — Bernard became, by turns, a 
construction worker, boxer, baseball 
player, football pro and soda jerk. As a 
result of some pick-up modeling jobs, he 
became acquainted with the "Village" 
bohemians. Their "artistic" way of life 
appealed to him, but it struck him that 
"their constant snobbish talk about the 
'theatah' was a little on the phony side." 
So he decided to give it a try "just to 
show them anyone could do it." Before he 
knew it, he was "Dane Clark" and a series 
of tough guys in "Dead End," "Waiting 
for Lefty" and "Golden Boy." Then came 
the Broadway lead in "Of Mice and Men" 
and a Warner Bros, contract. A series of 
radio and TV appearances culminated this 
past year in the TV role of reporter Dan 
Miller in ABC-TV's Wire Service .... 
Dane's been married for twelve years. His 
wife Margot, whose professional name is 
Veres, is one of the most accomplished 
painters of circus art in the country. They 
live in West Los Angeles, but keep a flat 
in London and a New York apartment as 
well. Dane is an avid traveler — prefers 
Wire Service's location sets to the studio. 



FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's 
something you want to know about radio 
and television, write to Information Booth, 
TV Raoio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., New 
York 17, N. Y. We'll answer, if we can, 
provided your question is of general inter- 
est. Answers will appear in this column — 
but be sure to attach this box to your 
letter, and specify whether your question 
concerns radio or TV. 




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85 



The Crosby Clan From Spokane 



(Continued from page 36) 
and show every indication of becoming a 
long-hair. 

George Robert was the only Crosby 
born at 508 Sharp Avenue in Spokane, 
Washington, but all the young Crosbys — 
Larry, Everett, Ted, Bing, Catherine and 
Mary Rose — grew up there. Guided by 
the firm and loving hand of their hand- 
some, spirited mother, Kate Harrigan 
Crosby, and by their not-so-firm but ever- 
loving father, Harry Lillis Crosby, Sr. — 
otherwise (and deservedly) known as 
"Happy Harry." 

Sharp Avenue revisited. . . . Today, the 
house was painted white instead of brown. 
Pat Higgins, a public accountant, and his 
wife Marge had bought the place from 
the Crosbys, and Mrs. Higgins (now 
widowed) still lives there. It was the 
Higgins family who opened the door to 
Bing and to his many memories. 

Memories of the "Crosby clambakes" in 
the large family parlor, and the "Sunday- 
night sings," with Pop on the mandolin or 
guitar and Catherine at the piano and all 
the others joining their voices in "When 
You Wore a Tulip and I Wore a Big Red 
Rose." The chatter of the college crowds 
who gathered at the house after a football 
game. The way the whole Crosby clan 
trooped across the three blocks from their 
house to the gridiron, with their mother, 
Kate, a solid fan, leading the way. 

The woodbox that wouldn't stay filled, 
and the devious ways he avoided filling 
it — until his mother would pointedly put 
on a heavy coat, go out into the cold, and 
bring in a couple of chunks. The hot 
mush Harry Crosby, Sr. used to make up 
in the mornings for breakfast — and the 
way every Crosby would heat it up and 
make his own breakfast, when he came 
down. . . . 

The house on Sharp Avenue brought 
back all the boyish escapades, like con- 
spiring with pals about the best means 
of sneaking in free to the basketball 
games, and stealing cherries from the 
orchard back in Holy Names Academy. 
The lilac bushes in the back yard. And the 
heady aroma of the plum pudding and 
raisin bread Kate Crosby used to make. 
To the man who went around whistling 
and ringing doorbells along Sharp Avenue 
that afternoon, the old-fashioned frame 
house would be home — in a sense the 
five more pretentious homes he owned 
today had never been. Just as the Kear- 
neys, the Bradleys, the Huetters, the Gia- 
nellis, Albis, Sholderers, Brokmans and 
Bresnahans — who'd shared those years 
and the street where he'd lived — would be 
part of Bing's life in a way the famous 
who touched his life today could never be. 
With the exception of one family — "the 
brick house on the block" — those who 
lived on Sharp Avenue then were poor 
in material things. Pop Crosby's salary, 
as bookkeeper at the brewery, took some 
stretching for his brood. Father Joe 
Kearney — Bob Crosby's boyhood friend, 
who lived next door to the Crosbys "on 
the other side" — recalls that his own dad, 
as a railway inspector, was at one time 
making eighty dollars a month "and feed- 
ing a whole flock of us." There was "a 
flock" in just about every house on the 
street, and a strict bed-check was no 
small responsibility, counting youthful 
noses, after the sun went down. 

But, if there was little money, there was 
T no limit on fun. The whole campus of 
v Gonzaga was their playground. And no boy 
R could ask for more adventure than riding 
the logs down the treacherous Spokane 
River from McGolderick's Mill. The river 
86 



ran right back of the school — and, as one 
of the Fathers who taught at Gonzaga then 
recalls, "They thought it fine sport riding 
those logs — the little imps." It was very 
dangerous and the mill was "out of 
bounds," which made it more attractive. 

Bob Crosby almost drowned there, when 
he was seven years old. "Bing and the 
older boys would go down to the mill and 
walk the logs," Bob reminisces. "I tried 
to imitate them and I fell in." Which so 
unnerved his brother Bing that "he took 
me out to the end of the dock in Liberty 
Lake the next day and threw me in, say- 
ing, 'Now swim]' " 

Theirs was a neighborhood thick with 
brogues and a smattering of other accents. 
The young Irishers nicknamed their dis- 
trict "The Holy Land," inasmuch as just 
about everybody there was a Catholic. The 
boys went to Gonzaga, the girls to Holy 
Names Academy. And, on Sunday, all of 
them attended St. Aloysius Church, which 
they shortened to "St. Al's." Their parents 
played cards over at the parish hall and, 
on weekends, the Irish lads would join the 
colleens to dance at the hall or attend the 
movies frequently shown there. 

"Sharp Avenue was like a little town," 
Mary Bresnahan, former Crosby neighbor 
and friend, remembers warmly now. "You 
could go in and ask for a piece of bread in 
anybody's house. It was just one of those 
neighborhoods." 

Nor, Father Joe Kearney adds, did they 
always stop at sharing bread: "My grand- 
father was in his nineties, and Bob would 
come over to the house every day just to 
eat breakfast with him. Then, later, the 
two of us would go on over to the Hardi- 
gans' — and have cold eggs or any leftovers 
they had. What our parents thought of us 
going around getting handouts, I don't re- 
call," he laughs. "Nor do I know now why 
we did it." 

It was one of those neighborhoods where 
"they did quite a lot of porch-sitting," too. 
On a balmy summer evening, Pop Crosby 
would come out on his front porch to air 
out his guitar, and other sitters up and 
down the street would leave their own 
porches. "Dad Crosby would start singing 
and playing," Gladys Bradley remembers, 
"and we'd all gather there." 

True to the Irish, opinion was divided 
about Bing's talent. Some entertained 
grave doubt that he would ever make a 
living with his voice — and, later on, they 
were even more fearful of Bob's chances. 
One neighbor recalls warmly how she'd 
hear Bing come by her house whistling 
every night: "You could always tell Bing's 
whistle from the other boys'. He was the 
best whistler in the bunch." 

However, Mary Bresnahan remembers 
that, when Bing's whistle passed their 
house, her father took a very dim view of 
any future for him musically. "We lived 
two blocks from the Crosbys," she says, 
"and, when Bing would pass our house on 
the way home, he'd always be whistling in 
harmony or bass, and my dad would say, 
'I wish that kid would sing — instead of 
whistling off-key.' He didn't realize Bing 
was whistling the harmony. Or he'd say, 
'Why can't that kid whistle the tune?' 

"Sometimes Bing would hear him," Mary 
laughs, "and he'd call back, 'Someday this 
is going to pay off, Mr. Bresnahan. I'll do 
it someday — and I'll make it pay J too.' " 
But Mary's father would just shake his 
head and lament again, "If the kid would 
even whistle the tune . . ." 

Father Cornelius McCoy, who was then 
teaching at Gonzaga, recalls that Bing was 
fired from the choir there. The choir di- 
rector, the late Father Lewis McCann, 
came from a very musical family in San 



Francisco. "He was a brilliant musician, 
with a fine knowledge of the classics." 
Around Bing's crowd, he was referred to 
as "Frisco Louie," and considered both 
strict and lacking in humor. 

But there was surprise when he fired 
Bing from the choir, and a few in the com- 
munity wanted to know why. "For two 
reasons," Father McCann told them. "The 
boy never comes to rehearsal. And he 
can't sing." 

"Bing wasn't a bad boy," Father McCoy 
adds now. "He was a good-natured, mis- 
chievous boy." And the fact that he "never 
came to rehearsal" was fairly indicative of 
his casual temperament, even then. "He 
was always relaxed about everything— 
which turned out to be, I believe, largely 
the secret of his success." 

But — if some hometowners were dis- 
paraging about Bing's future possibilities 
vocally — in the beginning, they held almost 
no hope at all for his brother Bob's. Never- 
theless, Bob had music on his mind. From 
boyhood, he'd been a fan of Bing's. "He 
was always hanging over the phonograph 
listening to Bing's records. And, whenever 
he got a new one, he'd call up some of us 
to come hear it. He was very proud of 
him," says Father Joe Kearney, who not 
only had lived next door but had also 
worked with Bob's band before deciding 
to study for the priesthood. Today, he 
teaches at St. Gregory's in Los Angeles, is 
chaplain with the Catholic Labor Institute, 
and the two of them still keep in touch. 

"A lot of people were on Bob's back 
then," the red-haired priest says of those 
earlier days. Even more so when Bob was 
fired by Anson Weeks from his first job 
with a band. "They would say, 'He ought 
to get a job — he can't sing.' According to 
custom then, you worked part-time to get 
through school and then you got a job. To 
some, Bob seemed to be just sort of hang- 
ing around. Actually, he was singing 
wherever he could. But, to them, he wasn't 
working. He was a target for a lot of 
criticism then." 

But Bob wouldn't be discouraged, how- 
ever depressed he may have felt person- 
ally during this time. "Bob never had any 
doubt, from the time he decided he was 
going to do it. This was it." And, to his de- 
tractors, Bob would prophesy, even as his 
brother had done before: "You wait- 
someday you'll be payin' to hear me sing." 

Even so, there were few back in Spokane 
— including George Robert himself — who 
would have believed the day would come 
when television sponsors would be paying 
plenty for that privilege. The day when 
his would be an audience of millions. When 
Bob Crosby's voice and warm personality 
would be a daily must for the fairer sex, 
and his CBS-TV show part of the pattern 
of their lives. 

Nor would even the most loyal along 
Sharp Avenue ever have believed that 
Bob's older brother would be the most be- 
loved and famous voice of his time, an in- 
stitution in show business, and the donor 
of a $500,000 library to Gonzaga Univer- 
sity, his alma mater. Nor that the day 
would come when it would take a very 
large room in the Crosby library to hold 
all the valuable souvenirs of Bing's suc- 
cess — the "Crosbyana" which he hopes 
might encourage other young bloods com- 
ing up in his home town who would dream 
big, like the fellow who whistled "off-key." 
Bing's Oscar; his now-twenty gold records, 
each representing more than a million 
record sales; his Photoplay gold medals, 
awarded him as the favorite motion-pic- 
ture star of readers all over America. Hun- 
dreds of trophies, all "wins." 



Now, in television, Bob is winning his 
own awards, too — including three gold 
medals from TV Radio Mirror's readers as 
their favorite daytime variety program, 
for the past three years in a row. But Bob's 
biggest victory can't be measured by 
trophies. It came from earning his own 
identity in show business, in the shadow 
of the most famous and beloved song-man 
of all time. 

From the beginning, the success of both 
Bing and Bob was sparked by their own 
heritage. The courage, the character, the 
Irish spirit that has always been Kate 
Harrigan Crosby's. The warmth, the music, 
the carefree charm— the bit of gypsy — 
that was Pop's ... a genial gentleman 
prone to smoking his dudeen and playing 
his guitar, undisturbed which way the 
winds might blow. Pop's gypsy strain, in 
turn, dated back to his grandfather, Cap- 
tain Nathaniel Crosby, Jr., a New England 
salt who sailed into the Northwest, helped 
found the fair city of Portland, built the 
first frame house there . . . and sailed 
away to China one day, and never re- 
turned. 

And, from the beginning, Harry Lillis 
Crosby could take good care of himself — 
physically, mentally and vocally. "Bing was 
a pretty good fighter," recalls Jimmy Cot- 
trell, Northwest ex-middleweight champ 
who grew up with him in Spokane. "Good 
with his right. I've always kidded him 
about his left, but he was a good amateur 
boxer, actually. I saw him knock out 
Buddy Fitzgerald in an amateur meet at 
Gonzaga, one time." 

The friendship of Crosby and Cottrell 
— who's been a prop man on Bing's pic- 
tures ever since he hung up his gloves 
twenty-three years ago — was first in- 
spired when Bing saw Jimmy knock out 
the neighborhood bully. "All the kids had 
gangs," Jimmy recalls, "and Bing and I 
belonged to different teams. I lived down 
in the Logan school district, so I belonged 
to the 'Logan' gang. There was also the 
'Hayes Park' gang, the 'Minnehaha' gang, 
and Bing's 'Mission Park' gang. We all in- 
termingled and played ball." 

But there was one big bully who didn't 
play ball with much of anybody — and Bing 
was an interested spectator when Jimmy 
Cottrell took the measure of him: "This 
boy was the 'ace' kid — the tough one — in 
the outfit. I didn't know whether Bing 
ever had any trouble with him or not, but 
others did." One day, Jimmy had a fight 
with him, in back of a local grocery store 
— and, from then on, Bing was on his team. 
In all the years he's observed Bing himself 
in the clinches, Jimmy adds, "He'll always 
go down in my book as the champ." 

Bing early indicated that, whenever the 
stakes were to his liking, he'd always fin- 
ish somewhere in the money. He had both 
the will and the ability to win. Pop Crosby 
once told about how Bing entered a city 
swimming meet, against supposedly far 
superior swimmers, and brought home 
every medal they gave — one for every 
event he entered, plus the medal for the 
entire meet. 

Kate and Harry Crosby were always 
anxious that their brood have a good edu- 
cation and — although "there was no mid- 
night-oil-burning at our house" — they 
kept a vigilant eye on all report cards. As 
well as on all reports of conduct at school. 
Bing has given credit to the Fathers at 
Gonzaga for helping condition him to fife 
— "to facing whatever Fate set in my path, 
squarely, with a cold blue eye." His diffi- 
culty in childhood, however, was in how 
to face the Fathers. 

Nevertheless, Bing didn't encounter too 
much difficulty in the matter of being 
disciplined — though his parents had antici- 
pated that he might, when he started go- 



ing to Gonzaga. They tried to have a 
heart-to-heart talk with him regarding 
a priest who was known to be very severe. 
"That guy will never see me," Bing de- 
cided. "What about Father So-and-so?" 
his parents went on, naming another who 
was also reputedly strict. Bing thought 
about it a moment, then summed up the 
whole thing. "I'll be okay," he said seri- 
ously. "It will work out all right. A guy 
would be crazy to start anything in there." 

A respect for knowledge and for dis- 
cipline, for being self-relianl: and re- 
sourceful, were part of the young Crosbys' 
home training. Pop used to say proudly, 
"None of the boys ever bothered us for 
any spending money. They all earned 
their own." And he'd add that Bing began 
earning his, by getting up at four A.M. 
to deliver the Spokesman- Review. 

They all shared responsibilities of the 
home to a certain extent. On Saturdays, 
all the family helped. Larry and Cath- 
erine helped their mother in the kitchen, 
the other boys beat the carpets and helped 
with the cleaning — and, by two P.M., the 
work was done. There had to be system, 
with so many mouths to feed . . . and their 
parents never knew how many there 
would be. "We never did mind how many 
friends they brought home with them," 
Pop used to say. "And we didn't mind the 
noise or the phonograph or dancing." 
Thinking back, he didn't know how they 
managed: "We didn't have much mon- 
ey . . ." 

rVLoney they didn't have. But, if a house 
could speak, what a heartwarming story 
the old place on Sharp Avenue could tell 
of the family who lived there . . . the 
music, the laughter, and the full, Irish 
fun. "We all loved to go over there," Mary 
Bresnahan says now. "Mrs. Crosby would 
turn the whole house over to us. But, at 
a reasonable hour, she would come and 
say, 'Now it's time to go home.' " 

The joint really started jumping when 
Harry Lillis did his "homework" — prac- 
ticing the drums. Any early opinion to 
the contrary, Pop Crosby was always quick 
to say proudly that his boy Bing was 
born to sing and to perform. And Bing's 
mother has gone on record privately, re- 
futing any popular impression that he 
knows nothing about music technically. 
As she once pointed out. "Bing played the 
drums in the Gonzaga College orchestra — 
and they didn't play jazz, either — so you 
know he had some knowledge of music." 
Pressed, Bing has admitted to a few voice 
lessons — but gallantly refuses to name 
any instructor to share the responsibility. 

One of the members of the Gonzaga 
band — Leo Lynn, who was later to be 
Bing's stand-in in Hollywood — speaks 
with authority of days when they both 
played the snare drum in the band. He 
recalls Bing's application, mentioning one 
day in particular: "We were in the Elks 
parade in downtown Spokane, going down 
Main Street. It was raining a touch, and 
we were really beating those drums. They 
wanted us to play good and loud. 'You 
put a hole in those drums and we'll treat 
you after the parade,' they said. Bing 
and I were beating them to death." 

Their freshman year in college, both 
Leo and Bing were end-men in the school 
minstrel show: "I was on one end of the 
line, and Bing was on the other. I had 
one joke. But Bing did everything. He was 
really the star of the show. He told jokes, 
he sang, and he'd even picked up a little 
soft-shoe dancing on the side." 

Then — as now, with his experience of 
twenty-three years working closely with 
him — it was evident to Leo that "Bing 
would have been a success at anything. 
He always believed whatever you do — it 
was worth doing well." 



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87 



At Gonzaga, Bing put his strong rhythm 
arm — and his voice — to work commer- 
cially with Al Rinker's "Musicaladers." 
Their first steady job was for three dollars 
apiece a night, playing at Lareida's dance 
pavilion a few miles from Spokane. Jim- 
my Cottrell, who was "hustling bouts" 
during those days when Bing was singing 
for a few bucks wherever he could, used 
to go out to Lareida's to hear him sing. 

"Bing was an outstanding singer then," 
he says. "The only difference — his voice is 
deeper now. But he was always a stylist. 
He had complete control of any song he 
sang. There was only one thing: Bing was 
doing some of those dreamy Hawaiian 
numbers, and he had a tendency to sing 
with his eyes closed then." Jimmy would 
dance by him and say, in a loud stage 
whisper, "Keep your eyes open . . . open 
up those eyes . . ." 

But Bing's blue eyes were wide open — 
to the music that was becoming so much 
a part of him. He'd had two years of pre- 
law. But he know that words without 
music would hold small meaning for him. 
The words had to be set to melody and a 
beat — and that beat was really beckoning. 
And, one day, his itchy, wig-wagging left 
foot took him away . . . while his ten- 
year-old brother watched, wide-eyed, from 
the old front porch, and waved him off to 
exciting adventure. . . . 

During Bob's boyhood years, there was 
even less money in the family cookie jar. 
With extra space at home, Kate Crosby 
rented out rooms to students who were 
going to Gonzaga or Holy Names Academy. 
And Bob figures that, if doing chores 
builds character, he was loaded with it 
during this time. "I had it tougher than 
the others," he says now, of the cooperative 
homework his older brothers had known. 
"Larry was married and editor of the Wal- 
lace, Idaho.Pr ess- Times. Everett and Ted 
were out on their own. When Bing left, I 
was the only boy around. I piled all the 
wood and carried it to the basement." 

Also, with the ranks thinned, Pop and 
Kate Crosby were able to pay even closer 
attention to any infraction of house rules. 
Even easygoing Pop, who'd always ducked 
disciplining any of them, found he had a 
free hand. Bob's next-door friend, Father 
Joe Kearney, remembers one day in parti- 
cular when Harry Crosby, Sr. took the 
situation — and George Robert — firmly in 
hand: "Bud Luedcke, an adventurous type 
of kid in the neighborhood, had taken 
Bob for a ride on the back of his motor- 
cycle, and Pop thought they'd stayed out 
much too long. When they got back, Mr. 
Crosby came out of the house with a stick. 

"Bob was wearing coveralls, and there 
was a catcher's mitt lying in the yard. Bud 
said, 'Why don't you put the catcher's mitt 
in your pants?' Bob thought this was great 
advice," Father Kearney twinkles. "He 
was reaching for the mitt — when Mr. 
Crosby reached for him. Bud was laughing, 
and Bob was reaching, and Bob's dad 
didn't see anything humorous in that at 
all. He was mad — and he really whacked 
him." 

The pattern of his teen years was as 
Irish as theirs had always been — and Bob's 
hardy Crosby heritage was to prove as 
fortunate. Baseball was his forte and, one 
day while he was catching, a friend recalls, 
"Bob got hit in the mouth with the ball. 
He lost four or five teeth, and it changed 
his facial appearance somewhat, at first." 
He was lucky — it could have endangered 
his whole future in television later on. 

Like his brothers before him, Bob went 
T to dances at the parish hall. But, Irish or 

* no — "There wasn't too much romance. 

* About the time I got to thinking about 
girls, Bing was a big success with Paul 
Whiteman. And it was as tough to follow 

88 



him in romance as it was in song," Bob 
explains. "The first time I tried to kiss a 
girl, she looked up into my eyes soulfully 
and said, 'How tall is Bing?' And that was 
that." He was, however, his brother's 
most enthusiastic fan. He was always 
inviting pals over to hear Bing's latest 
record. And, as one of them recalls, 
"Whenever Bing was going to be on a 
radio show, Bob would always keep us 
informed, to make sure we listened in." 

During the summer months, Bob was 
temporarily employed picking apples or 
cucumbers or strawberries — for twenty- 
five cents an hour — at a crossroads called 
"Opportunity," about twelve miles from 
Spokane. "They called that whole area 
'Opportunity Valley,' " he recalls. . . . 
But, when opportunity really knocked for 
George Robert Crosby, it was to be with 
a beat. And, even then, he was thinking 
in terms of that day to come. 

One Spokane friend recalls the time the 
two of them and another pal decided 
to form a trio: "We all met at Bob's with 
that thought in mind. But nothing hap- 
pened. We didn't know what to do, or how 
to put voices together, or anything. Bob's 
sister, Catherine, played the piano for us 
and we tried to sing 'Bye Bye Blues' in 
harmony, but we just didn't know how to 
be a trio." 

With the help of two schoolmates, Ray 
Hendricks and Bill Pollard, Bob event- 
ually formed "The Delta Rhythm Boys 
Trio." They played for school dances and 
parties, and one of the boys: had an old 
jalopy for transportation to "engagements." 

One day, Bob learned that Bing was 
coming to Seattle with Paul Whiteman's 
band, and he went looking for Joe Kear- 
ney, full of enthusiastic plans for going 
there: "Bob came over to Gonzaga in an 
old Ford, with another kid, and said, 
'Come on, bring your banjo, and we'll go 
to Seattle.' " By then, Joe Kearney could 
play "a couple of things on the banjo." 
And Bob had it all figured out. If their 
jalopy broke down, he would sing, Bill 
Pollard would play the piano, Joe Kearney 
could play his banjo, and they'd work their 
way on. Which wasn't necessary, fortu- 
nately. For, as the priest twinkles now, 
"We couldn't have made any money at all. 

"Seattle was three hundred miles away 
and, to us, this sounded like great ad- 
venture. We got a picture of Paul White- 
man and put it up in the car. We had a 
big sign saying, 'Seattle or Bust'— and we 
had flat tires all the way. But Bing was 
very good to us. He got us a room at the 
Olympic Hotel and we stayed two or three 
days. We'd catch the show down at the 
big auditorium at night, and we'd hang 
around with all the gang during the day — 
and it was a great experience. Bob was 
already sold he was going to be a singer, 
but meeting all these big people ... all 
this was a big thrill." 

Not long after, the young Irish were 
again gathering at the gabled house on 
Sharp Avenue — seeing another Crosby off 
to glory. Bing had put in a word for Bob 
with Anson Weeks, Bob had sung for him 
long-distance — "with a very bad connec- 
tion" — and had gotten the job. Now he 
was packing excitedly to go to San Fran- 
cisco and join the band. "We were all 
tremendously excited," one of his pals 
recalls. "Bob was going to try his luck 
in the world. And we were seeing him off 
and were very impressed. Later on, when 
we heard he was making a fcundred a 
week, we thought he'd really; , Inade it. 
He was a 'smash success.'" 

In no time, however, Bob was home. 
Fired because "I felt I wasn't ready and 
shirked the job." It was a tough homecom- 
ing for Bob — who, like his brother be- 
fore him, had promised the skeptical: 
"Someday you'll be payin' to hear me 



sing." That pay-day now seemed in- 
creasingly remote. "That was really a 
depressing period in Bob's life," an old 
friend says. "I remember he just kind of 
wandered around. He'd started his career 
— in a way — and then flopped. He was 
really low. 

"He had range, but his voice just didn't 
quite come off then. He had a vibrato and 
he had to work to get rid of that. And 
some people thought he was trying to 
sing like Bing. He had a sound in his 
voice, a quality, that reminded you of 
Bing's — but Bob certainly wasn't copying 
him." 

During this period, Bob says now, "I 
decided to learn to sing. I studied with an 
Italian professor, as many lessons as I 
could afford. And I sang wherever I 
could get experience." He sang at the 
Fifth Street Theater and at McElroy's 
Ballroom in Seattle, and at Lareida's and 
Liberty Lake and the Walkathon in Spo- 
kane. In the face of those who kept saying. 
"He should get a job and go to work . . ." 

I hen, one day, Bob Crosby headed South 
again, on another trial run. No triumphant 
departure this time: "A dealer gave me 
five dollars a day to drive a used car to 
another dealer in Los Angeles, and I came 
back by way of San Francisco and told 
Anson Weeks I felt more qualified to sing. 
Anson said, 'Until I'm sure of the same 
thing, I'll just pay you ten dollars a week 
and board and room.' " 

Bob's job, however, was to be far 
rougher than just proving he could sing. In 
the years that followed, his was the chal- 
lenge of building an identity of his own, 
distinct from one of the most famous and 
beloved in the land. He couldn't know, 
when he drove out of the city limits of 
Spokane that last time, just how much 
heart and how much hard work that 
would mean. And how long a time. . . . 

True to prophecy, when Bob Crosby 
and his Bobcats really got to rolling, the 
folks were all "paying" to hear him sing. 
Buying smash records like "Big Noise 
from Winnetka" and other platters, as 
fast as they came out. All along Sharp 
Avenue, the younger Irish were soon 
jumping to the rhythm of Bob's own beat 
— a Dixieland beat. Television cinched his 
fame . . . and an identity of his own. . . . 

But Bob Crosby and his brother — the 
chap in the wild sport shirt who goes 
around ringing doorbells along Sharp 
Avenue — will always feel identified with 
the old neighborhood in Spokane. Here 
were their green years, the nostalgic 
years. Here are memories too strong to be 
broken by fame or by time. Here, one 
fine day, Bing Crosby — resplendent in cap 
and gown, and flanked by his family — was 
honored by his old alma mater. Here, in 
the same building where a mischievous 
boy was fired from the choir for never 
showing up at rehearsal, he heard such 
words as: "In token of the high regard in 
which he is held by his school and his 
fellow citizens, Gonzaga University con- 
fers on Harry Lillis Crosby the degree of 
Doctor of Music." 

Here today — in token of Bing's own 

high regard for youth is fast rising the 

ultra-modern Crosby Memorial Library. 
Here on the old playing field at Gonzaga — 
the "playground" of the noisy young Irish 
who used to bat balls and punt pigskins 
and dream big. Here in a museum — to be 
shared with those who dream — will be the 
Crosbyana. All the golden "wins," brought 
back here just a whistle away from the 
old gabled house on Sharp Avenue, where 
all the music began. 

It's the Crosby way of saying to all the 
ambitious young singers of today: If it 
can happen to a couple of boys named 
Bing and Bob, it can happen to anybody. 



I 





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Good manners are one of the greatest personal assets you 
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Ladies and gentlemen are always welcome . . . anywhere. 
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LEARN THE CORRECT ANSWERS TO THESE PROBLEMS 



ENGAGEMENTS — Chaperons. 
When He Proposes, The En- 
gagement Ring, Proper Gifts 
to a Fiance, The Announce- 
ment, Etiquette following the 
Announcement, Showers 
WEDDINGS— Time and Place. 
Invitations, Wedding An- 
nouncements, Second Mar- 
riages, Acceptance and Regrets, 
Who Pays for What, Wedding 
Presents, The Wedding Dress. 
Bridesmaids' Dresses. What the 
Groom Wears, The Best Man 
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Leaving a Visiting Card. IN- 
VITATIONS — Formal Invita- 
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Informal Notes of Invitations 
and Answers, Withdrawing an 
Invitation. PARTIES — The 
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Buffets, Breakfast, Brunch. 
Luncheon, Table Settings. Din- 
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WHEN DEATH OCCURS— Ar- 
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Funeral, The Funeral at Home. 
Burial, Mourning. TRAVEL- 
LING— Trains, Airplanes. 
Ships, Passports, Hotels, Tips. 
WHAT SHALL I WEAR — 
Clothes for men and Women 
Gifts — Childrens' Manners. 









•l 


J BARTHOLOMEW HOUSE, INC., Dept. WG-7-57 
i 205 E. 42nd St., New York 17. N. Y. 




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TV 



RAU9IO 
MIRROR 



AUGUST, 1957 



MIDWEST EDITION 



VOL. 48, NO. 3 



Ann Higginbotham, Editorial Director 



Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Claire Safran, Associate Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor 



Jack Zasorin, Art Director 

Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 

Joan Clarke, Art Assistant 

Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 



PEOPLE ON THE AIR 

What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 4 

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 6 

The Skiffle Boys by Lilla Anderson 8 

Christmas in July (Bill Leyden visits Santa's Village) 16 

Are We Afraid of Our Teen-Age Kids (Sam Levenson) . .by Gladys Hall 30 

From the Fields of The Dakotas (Lawrence Welk) . .by Maxine Arnold 32 

The Edge Of Night (Fiction Bonus based on the popular daytime drama) 36 

In the Swim at Lake Arrowhead (Carol Richards) 38 

The Pat Boones Go to Hollywood , by Shirley Boone 42 

New Hot Singers of 1957 by Helen Bolstad 44 

Where Adam Is King (Ida Lupino and Howard Duff) by Fredda Balling 50 

Be a Cool Warm-Weather Hostess (Arlene Francis) . . . .by Frances Kish 52 

Country Music Comes to Town 54 

Two Hands Full of Laughter (ZaSu Pitts) by Eunice Field 58 

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR 

Almost Like Angels (Bill Williams and Barbara Hale) by Gordon Budge 22 

My Sentimental Tommy Sands by Grace Sands 26 

The Truth About Polly Bergen by Martin Cohen 28 

YOUR LOCAL STATION 

Tempest at a Turntable (WAAF) 10 

He's Got 'Em Covered (WWJ) 12 

Oh, Brother! (WDGY) 14 

Every Day Is Ladies' Day (KSCJ) 62 

YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES 

Movies on TV 3 

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions ) 11 

Information Booth 13 

Churning the Channels 16B 

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 20 

Beauty: The Lady Dances (Kathryn Murray) by Harriet Segman 60 

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 78 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 88 

Cover portrait of Pat Boone by David Workman of U. S. Features 



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Member of the TRUE STORY Women's Group. 



Showing this month 



ASTONISHED HEART, THE (U-I) : 

Adult, witty treatment of a marriage prob- 
lem, from the English angle. Psychiatrist 
Noel Coward, happily wed to placid Celia 
Johnson, grapples with a sudden infatuation 
for dashing Margaret Leighton. 

BACHELOR AND THE BOBBY-SOX- 
ER, THE (RKO) : Delightful clowning by 
Cary Grant, as a gay blade being pursued 
by ardent teenager Shirley Temple. As 
the girl's sister — a judge! — Myrna Loy 
adds more charm. 

BIG STREET, THE (RKO): Lucille 
Ball does an excellent dramatic job in the 
Damon Runyon story of a gangster's ex- 
sweetie, crippled, yet rebuffing the friend- 
ship of bus-boy Henry Fonda. 

CAREFREE (RKO): Mild plot, ribbing 
the psychoanalysis routine. But who cares? 
— with such exuberant dancing by the 
young Astaire and Rogers. Fred's the 
doctor; Ginger's the patient; Ralph Bell- 
amy's her fiance. 

GOOD SAM (RKO) : Likeable people put 
across the story of a selfless small-towner 
and his family. Gary Cooper's the gener- 
ous hero; Ann Sheridan, his wife. 

GUEST WIFE (U.A.) : Gentle comedy 
teams Claudette Colbert with Dick Foran 
and Don Ameche. War correspondent Don 
has told his bosses he's married, so Dick 
lends wife Claudette to keep up the hoax. 

INTERMEZZO (U.A.): Touching ro- 
mance-with-music stars the young Ingrid 
Bergman and the late Leslie Howard, as a 
pianist and a violinist, whose illicit love is 
brief. 

LUCKY PARTNERS (RKO): Pleasant 
farce pairs Ronald Colman and Ginger 
Rogers, as Greenwich Villagers who win a 
sweepstakes bonanza. Jack Carson and 
Spring Byington also contribute chuckles. 

MATING OF MILLIE, THE (Colum- 
bia) : Any bus-rider will laugh at the first 
sequence. Glenn Ford's the driver; Evelyn 
Keyes, the career girl who must find a hus- 
band before adopting a child. 

MY FAVORITE WIFE (RKO): Deftly 
done laugh-fest, casting Cary Grant as an 
innocent bigamist. Wed to Gail Patrick, 
he's staggered by the amazing return of 
Irene Dunne, long marooned on a desert 
island with rugged Randolph Scott. 

NOTORIOUS (RKO) : In a dandy Hitch- 
cock thriller, Cary Grant and Ingrid Berg- 
man play the Nazi-American spy game in 
Brazil. With that famous "butterfly kiss" 



TRIO (Paramount): Fine English film, 
based on three Maugham stories. James 
Hayter plays a gaily . successful illiterate. 
Nigel Patrick's the apparently unbearable 
life-of-the-party on a cruise ship. Jean 
Simmons, Michael Rennie share wistful 
love. 

YOU WERE NEVER LOVELIER (Co 

lumbia) : Graceful, featherweight musical. 
As a Norte Americano dancer, Fred Astaire 
romances Argentinean Rita Hayworth. 



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WHAT'S NEW ON 



By PETER ABBOTT 




Quizzical Hal March marches on to Hollywood this summer with wife Candy. 
He'll spend his vacation starring as a con man in the film, "Hear Me Good." 




T Fleetfooted Marge and Sower Champion find that a tricky dance routine is 
R simple compared to the swing-your-program replacement whirl on television. 

For What's New On The West Coast, See Page G 



Love Knows No Channels: When an 
ABC cowboy falls for a CBS filly, 
what can a veepee say? Such is 
the case as video's most handsome 
gun-toter bites the dust for a toe 
dancer. Hugh O'Brian may be back 
on the West Coast filming more Wyatt 
Earp episodes, but his heart re- 
mains in Long Island with Dorothy 
Bracken, a June Taylor dancer. Hugh 
admits it was Dorothy's blond beauty 
that first attracted him, but adds, 
"After one date, I knew this was a 
girl I could really respect." The 32- 
year-old bachelor denies that it's 
an engagement, "but I don't deny 
the fact. I mean I can't deny that I 
think so much of her." Last trip 
to New York City, Hugh traveled 
the Long Island Railroad to meet 
Dorothy's parents. This must mean 
something. Ask any L.I. commuter. 

Short & Sassy: Phil Silvers turning 
down fabulous night-club offers to 
hold wife's hand. Baby Bilko due 
any minute. . . . CBS special eventer, 
Bill Leonard, married Mike Wallace's 
first wife, Norma "Kappy" Kaphan. 
. . . Andy "Butterfly" Williams co- 
stars with June Valli in Nat "King" 
Cole periods over NBC -TV until Sep- 
tember 5. Andy goes on singing alone 
in private life. Those long-distance 
phone calls he makes to San Fernando 
Valley are to have a bark with his 
boxer Barnaby. . . . End of season 
finds Lucy still champ, ahead of run- 
ners-up by over two-million viewers. 
. . . Lovely Ilene Woods, frequent 
singer on Arthur Godfrey Time, de- 
nies anything but good friendship 
with Ted Williams, but she never 
misses a ball game with Ted and he 
never seems to miss dinner with Ilene 
when he's in Manhattan. . . . Back- 
stage, Julie La Rosa relaxes playing 
chess with wife Rory. ... If you didn't 
know it, Bride And Groom is back, 
weekdays, 2: 30 P.M. on NBC-TV. . . . 
CBS-TV is sweating over possibility 
that Como may expand to ninety min- 
utes. What to do about the Como 
power? Consider a half -hour stanza 
each for Les Femmes Monroe and 
Mansfield. Back to back, Marilyn and 
Jayne should eclipse all TV screens. 
. . . Walter Winchell dropped his 
$7 -million suit against ABC since 
ABC -TV scheduled his new Desilu 
show for the fall. Walter hosts dra- 
matic series and promises not to get 
so staccatoooooo. 

I Got Sands in My Head: A teen-age 
gal is a gal just so long. Comes Tommy 
or Elvis, the gals turn into battling 
banshees, screamy weemies, frantic 
fillies. During Tommy Sands' per- 
sonal appearance run at New York's 
Roxy Theater, it was murder. In the 



THE EAST COAST 



first three days, eager fans knocked 
his mother over, threw Tommy to the 
ground twice and stripped two jackets 
from his back. Then on the fourth day 
things got rough. Tommy, accom- 
panied by road manager and rep from 
Capitol Records, was only trying to 
get back into theater to make stage 
show. He cruised up to theater in car. 
Stage entrance bristling with dames. 
Drove to executives' entrance. Same 
thing. Tommy and friends conferred. 
Decided to outsmart gals by going in 
main lobby. So they jumped from cab, 
but gals in ticket line spotted Tommy. 
Tommy and friends sprinted through 
outer lobby to ticket-taker. He want- 
ed tickets. Didn't recognize Tommy. 
Girls stampeding. Cap rep pushed 
ticket-taker aside and three men 
headed into inner lobby. Horrors. 
Two girls headed for popcorn-vendor 
spot Tommy. Scream, "Tommy! Tom- 
my!" Every door in lobby swings open 
and girls pour in. Light nightmare. 
One girl jumps Tommy from rear. 
Cap rep pulls her off. She swings on 
him with fist and splits his lip and 
cracks a tooth. Tommy is flat on floor 
and another jacket is shredding. His 
road manager is down and trampled. 
Three men finally get to feet and make 
flying wedge. With girls trailing, start 
up steps to mezzanine and on up to 
first balcony and second balcony. 
Right up to projection room, then out 
on roof and lock door. Down fire 
escape, through storage-room window 
and finally backstage. Thereafter 
Tommy checked into theater in morn- 
ing and stayed all day. He got long- 
distance consolation from his favorite 
girl, Molly Bee. This is just about the 
nicest, cutest couple in show-biz, al- 
though they are only in semi-steady 
stage. Both date others. 

Hot Stuff: Sonny James takes a two- 
week July vacation with family in 
Hackleburg, Alabama. Joining family 
reunion will be best gal, Doris of Dal- 
las, a beauty in image of Dorothy 
Malone. . . . Big summer headache 
for weekend variety shows is getting 
name guest stars. Ace comics and 
singers, already in high income 
bracket, would rather spend Saturday 
and Sunday on the beach than making 
money. . . . Dig Victor's wonderful 
album, "It's a Wonderful World," fea- 
turing Barbara Carroll on piano. 
You'll understand why she's the high- 
est-paid female performer in jazz field. 
. . . Mary Martin's new contract pays 
her $600,000 for six spectaculars, at 
the rate of one a year. . . . Charles 
Van Doren having problems. Said that 
his work at NBC so time-consuming 
he cannot finish work on doctorate, 
and a university teacher without a 
Ph.D. is like a rock 'n' roller out of 



jeans. Charlie may give up teaching. 
. . . Canadian Mike Kane, leading man 
(David Brown) in This Is Nora 
Drake, temporarily out of show to 
play Shakespearean stuff at Stratford 
Festival in Ontario. . . . The queen of 
summer ratings, Kathryn Murray, had 
both NBC and CBS fighting for her 
this year. Katie had been kind of 
hoping Arthur would forego the sum- 
mer show this year. She says, "I've 
been hoping for a vacation abroad for 
eight years now." 

Hotter Than a Pistol: New flip-bait 
is tall and slim, blond and handsome 
Steve Karmen. Steve is due back on 
Godfrey show this month. Just nine- 
teen, the Bronx-born youngster turn- 
ed to singing from starvation. He 
studied to be an actor, but lack of 
work led him to a guitar and folk 
singing. He had worked in a few Man- 
hattan clubs, Ruban Bleu, The Living 
Room and The Velvet Room, when he 
tried out for Talent Scouts back in 
May. On the show, he was a loser but 
so impressed Arthur and Jan Davis 
that he was immediately booked for 
three successive weeks, both morning 
and night-time on the Godfrey shows. 
Mercury Records came around with 
a contract. But, one day on the show, 
Arthur, so taken with Steve's Calypso 
numbers, asked, "Have you ever been 
to Trinidad?" "No." "You ought to 
go." "I don't have the money." "So 
you work with us until you earn 
enough and go. Then when you come 
back, tell us all about it." So Steve, 
though hot as a pistol, took Arthur's 
advice and dropped everything and 
took off on a 60-day cruise. This 
month, he returns to Godfrey Time 
to resume a career that is causing as 
much excitement over at CBS as 
early Pat Boone. 

Air-Conditioned Items: Hal March 
spends his vacation on the Paramount 
lot. Makes movie "Hear Me Good" 
and stars as charming con man. 
August, he returns to New York and 
TV and a rented house in New Ro- 
chelle. . . . McGuire Sisters get no 
vacation. This month, they work ten 
days in Syracuse. August, they're in 
Atlantic City and Wildwood. In be- 
tween personal appearances, they re- 
turn to New York and Godfrey Time. 
Phyl says, "The only time we get a 
vacation is when one of us gets sick 
and the others can't possibly work." 
. -. . Ava Thomas, gravel-voice on 
Robert Q's show, takes three-month 
jaunt in Europe with mother. . . . The 
Fred Waring aggregation takes over 
the Garry Moore daily slot on July 22 
and the Merry Moores take off until 
September 2. Durward has a hide- 
away in (Continued on page 15) 




Eric had to fatten up to five pounds 
before Melba Rae took him home. 




Slim and svelte now, June Valli is wel- 
come summer songbird on NBC-TV. 




On Arthur Godfrey's advice, young 
Steve Karmen traipsed to Trinidad. 



WHAT'S NEW ON 



By BUD GO ODE 



End of an Era: Or, "We haven't lost 
a daughter, we've gained a son" de- 
partment: I Love Lucy, still the heavy- 
weight rating champ, retires from the 
ring this year. CBS-TV bought out the 
Desilu interest for a reported $5,000,000. 
The way the comedy flowed the past 
six years, that comes to about a buck 
a laugh. A good buy for CBS. . . . But 
not "goodbye" to Lucy and Desi. They 
were no sooner back from their Ha- 
waiian vacation than Desi took off for 
New York to sign their new Ford Motor 
Company contract for five one-hour 
shows to be seen in the '57-'58 season. 
. . . And another television era seems 
to be threatened: Bob Crosby is re- 
ported going off CBS -TV with his day- 
time show. Unless CBS can find a 
night-time spot for Bob, his show won't 
have a home, come the end of August. 

Truth Takes a Trip: On Ralph Ed- 
wards' annual junket to the Truth Or 
Consequences, New Mexico, fiesta, Hol- 
lywood's best turned up as guests. They 
included Linda Darnell; songstress Erin 
O'Brien; Rin Tin Tin's master, Rip 
Masters (Jim Brown); Truth Or Con- 
sequences emcee, Bob Barker; Lassie's 
favorite gal, Jan Clayton; and Tommy 
Sands and Molly Bee. Let it be known 
that the town celebrated with "Molly 
Beeburgers" and "Tommy Sand- 
wiches"! . . . Later, after a local Truth 
Or Consequences show, emceed by the 
show's new quiz king, Bob Barker, 
Ralph Edwards also did a local This 
Is Your Life, surprising lovely actress 
Jan Clayton (New Mexico born and 
bred). When Jan went up on stage, she 
still thought Ralph was kidding. Then, 
realizing this was "it," she broke into 
tears. Ralph reached for his ever-ready 
handkerchief — and found no back pock- 





Young'uns at Truth Or Consequences hospital party with Ralph Edwards, Jan 
Clayton, Molly Bee, Bob Barker, Erin O'Brien, Jim Brown and Eddie Truman. 



et in his Western fiesta outfit! "Seven 
years I've been doing this show," he 
exclaimed, "and this is the first time 
I've been caught without a handker- 
chief — or pockets!" 

Who Sez: Tennessee Ernie says, "New 
fathers are like private eyes — they're 
always trying to pin something on 
somebody." . . . Lawrence Welkism: 
Lawrence, in describing the beauty of 
the Lennon Sisters to an acquaintance, 
said, "I can always tell Dianne apart 
from Kathy, because, besides being 
older, her nose is pointier." That it is. 
Incidentally, Mama Lennon had her 
tenth child (nine living) when Joseph 
Lawrence Lennon was born May 9. 

Casting: Bob Horton, rugged, hand- 
some and talented, has been cast as the 
frontier scout in NBC -TV's Wagon 
Train series, starring Ward Bond. Show 
begins September 14. . . . The Real 
McCoys, starring Oscar-winner Walter 
Brennan, debuts on ABC-TV, October 
3. . . . Sally, a new comedy starring 
Joan Caulfield and featuring Marion 
Lome, will be seen on NBC-TV, Sep- 
tember 22. . . . The Vic Damone Show 
premieres July 3, on CBS-TV. . . . 
Gisele MacKenzie's new Saturday-night 
show on NBC-TV will debut in Sep- 
tember. . . . Richard Boone of Medic 
fame -will star in CBS-TV's Have Gun 



— Will Travel, to be seen Saturday 
nights at 9:30 this fall. This series 
opens up a host of other shows. For 
example, one built around a writer, 
"Have Typewriter — Will Travel," and 
one around a witch, "Have Broom — 
Will Travel," ad infinitum. It's too bad 
Sid Caesar is going off — he'd have a 
ball satirizing this one. Speaking of Sid 
Caesar, he and NBC decided to call it 
quits. It's a sad fact, no matter how 
good a show is, if it doesn't pay off, 
it goes off. It's as simple as ABC. In 
fact, that's probably where Sid will be 
next year— at ABC-TV. 

Cinderella Story: Lovely Coral Rec- 
ord songstress Erin O'Brien, 23-year- 
old newcomer discovered by Steve 
Allen in his night-time audience, won 
national recognition singing on Steve's 
show, then guested once with George 
Gobel, and now has signed a contract 
with Warner Bros. Erin's dream of be- 
coming a movie star has come true — all 
in the space of six months! Erin has a 
starring role in Warners' upcoming 
"Marjorie Morningstar." Best described 
as delicately lovely, Erin will play 
Karen Blair, the amoral gal who throws 
herself at "Morningstar's" wonderfully 
nasty villain, Noel Airman. This strik- 
ing contrast will make exciting view- 
ing. But that's the way Hollywood 
likes to do things — excitingly. 



Champagne tickles, so do beards of 
Welk's Pete Fountain, George Cates. 



For What's New On The East Coast, See Page 4 



THE WEST COAST 



Sink or Swim : Charming Dinah Shore 
turned her TV Radio Mirror gold medal 
awards into a necklace. Often a winner, 
Dinah realized too late that real gold 
really weighs! Hubby George Mont- 
gomery said, "Don't fall in the swim- 
ming pool, honey . . . you'll go 
straight to the bottom!" Dinah will be 
spending the summer pounding nails 
with hubby George in the new Trous- 
dale Estates area where they are build- 
ing their new home. Dinah went to the 
private screening of George's newest 
picture, "Black Patch," and, though her 
own show has been getting rave re- 
views, she was more thrilled when Jack 
Warner of Warner Bros, came up to tell 
her that "Patch" would be a real hit 
for George. If they can find some way 
to pin a romantic ballad to the ruggedly 
masculine picture, Dinah will sing the 
background score. 

Elvis Episodes: Girls are like a base- 
ball game, or, From Tinker-to-Evers- 
to-Chance Department: Last week, El- 
vis Presley dated Yvonne Lime, Debbie 
Smith, and Pat Mowry — in that order, 
but in fewer days. . . . Has the full story 
been told on the tooth-swallowing 
episode? The day before he felt the 
pain, Elvis was doing a typical Presley 
dance routine with an all-male chorus 
(that's a switch) and it created enough 
excitement at the studio to send chore- 
ographer Michael Kidd and dancer 
Gene Kelly gawking to the soundstage. 
That's when Elvis lost the tooth cap. 
But he didn't feel any pain. That came 




Her TV Radio Mirror gold medals 
are now a necklace for Dinah Shore. 



next day, during a dramatic scene (no- 
body knows whether or not this was a 
love scene, or whether the pain was 
near his heart). At any rate, Elvis had 
to sit still for a bronchoscope — which 
kept him in the hospital under the eyes 
of a half-dozen pretty nurses. Some 
people can't win for losing. . . . Oh, yes, 
Elvis now has a pet wallaby, which 
looks like a live kewpie doll but packs 
the kick of a mule. The wallaby hails 
from Australia, (Continued on page 15) 




Make room for Daddy? It was standing-room only when Danny Thomas played 
the Sands night club in Las Vegas, then did an impromptu show for the overflow. 




Aren't you glad you've always 
been so careful with your ap- 
pearance, especially your hair! 
Every hair is in place, and you 
know it's easiest to keep that way 
by setting and securing it with 
Gayla hold-bob . . . the all-pur- 
pose bobby pin preferred by 
more women over all others. 

At first glance, bobby pins may 
look alike, but women know that 
Gayla hold-bob with Flexi-Grip 
is the leader by superior perform- 
ance... holds better, has the right 
combination of strength and flexi- 
bility, and is easiest to use. 
Do not accept ordinary bobby 
pins— insist on Gayla hold-bob. 







The Cockatoos, a group of four Royal Navy men, provide music for an impromptu skiffle session in a London street. 




rHISKlFMBOYS 




ENGLAND HOLLERS UP A STORM 

By LILLA ANDERSON 






Skiffle jumped across the Atlantic 
as Lonnie Donegan toured the States. 



Take a washtub, a washboard, a 
couple of guitars, a few writhing, 
uninhibited young men belting out 
songs which have crossed the Atlantic 
at least twice — and you have the mak- 
ings for a new teen-age musical craze 
which has created a storm of contro- 
versy in England and which is begin- 
ning to draw enthralled young sup- 
porters in the United States. 

It is called — no one quite knows 
why — "skiffle." The small combos which 
set the kids to dancing and their elders 
to deprecating are called "skiffle 
groups." In Britain the fad has spread, 
despite strong opposition, from sailors' 
pubs along the Limehouse docks to the 
stage of the Palladium and the studios 
of the independent television station. 
Young members of the nobility who 



have taken it up are considered to be 
sowing their wild oats. 

In America, the young intellectuals 
of New York's Greenwich Village claim 
it as their own private discovery. But 
it is spreading, both by personal and 
recorded invasion. That skiffling Scots- 
man, Lonnie Donegan, and the Charles 
McDevitt skiffle group have toured the 
States. The records of Bob Cort and 
Dickie Bishop are beginning to catch 
on. Tommy Steele, whom the British 
consider their own Elvis Presley, is 
contemplating a bow to America. 

To define skiffle is an elusive task. It 
is more illuminating to tell what hap- 
pens. Ask an English teenager what 
skiffle is and you'll draw that "How 
square can you get?" look which is 
the same on both sides of the Atlantic. 



Ask an oldster and . . . well, we did. 

On a recent trip to London, I had a 
chance to tour the skiffle clubs. My 
partner in this particular bit of musical 
research was an American who con- 
sidered himself a real gassed cat when 
it came to New Orleans blues, progres- 
sive jazz or frantic rock 'n' roll. 

Said my companion, ' T know they're 
in the Soho area. Let's take a cab." 

To find skiffle required a confer- 
ence at the end of the journey, for 
London cabs are square-rigged as the 
late Dowager Queen Mary's hats. A 
thick plate-glass panel separates chauf-, 
feur from passenger and no chatty non- 
sense is allowed. Not until the cabbie 
set us down at a Soho curb could my 
escorting hipster inquire, "Say, Dad, 
which joint swings?" 

■the cabbie reacted like Colonel Blimp. 
■ "I doubt if I understand, sir, but 
I am sure, sir, I would not know, sir." 

When we reached Soho a young 
couple was crossing the street. The 
question, "Hey, kids, which joint 
swings?" brought eager directions. "See 
that second sign— 'The Two IV? That's 
the most!" 

It was my first glimpse of a "coffee 
bar," an angular edifice resembling an 
elderly hamburger joint. Its non-alco- 
holic counter was crowded with Teddy- 
boys and their dolls. The boys' broad- 
cloth suits, cut to follow Edwardian 
styles, were in wild shades of magenta, 
pale blue, mauve. (A kid will go in 
hock for months to pay for having one 
tailored.) Youths not of the Teddy cult 
wore thick sweaters or duffle jackets. 
Their girls dressed in either gray flan- 
nel jumpers and black stockings or in 
tight toreador pants. 

We went down steep cellar stairs. 
At least two hundred kids were 
packed, foot-to-foot, into a space about 



Like America's Elvis, Tommy Steele 
gyrated his way into the spotlight. 




twice as large as an average living 
room. While American rock 'n' roll 
grew up in big theater shows, English 
skiffle gained its popularity in such 
"jazz clubs." 

A few determined couples danced. 
Others peered through the smoke to- 
ward the podium where Charlie Mc- 
Devitt and his boys were whanging out 
a heavy two-beat on guitars and bass. 
Listeners' faces were tense with excite- 
ment. 

But I'll have to admit ours were not. 
Said my escort, "This is skiffle?" 

Said I, "This is where I came in." 

And indeed it was. That same tune 
had sent me when I was a kid at a 
Methodist summer camp in Wisconsin. 
Sitting around the campfire, we would 
sing something like 97 verses to "I Am 
Redeemed by the Blood of the Lamb." 
The words were changed to "Hand Me 
Down My Walkin' Cane" in the version 
which came over the hillbilly radio 
stations we heard in western Minnesota. 
Now here it was again in a London 
cellar. The beat and the phrasing were 
identical. 

Skiffle has given many an old platter 
a new English accent, even when the 
singers make a studied attempt to copy 
American intonations. They have 
picked up some of the old jazz classics, 
but they also have concentrated on 
some styles which were simply dull in 
the beginning. Many of their numbers 
have now made the round trip. Orig- 
inally, they were English ballads 
brought here by early settlers. Hill- 
billy singers turned them into country - 
and-Western recordings. The young 
British skifflers have again made them 
their own. 

Skiffle, in Britain, has brought some 
young singers the same prominence 
that rock 'n' roll has done in the States. 
Lonnie Donegan is one of the top pur- 
veyors of the American sounds. Born 
in Glasgow, he was reared in the Cock- 
ney section of London. Toting his 
guitar with him, he found his way 
around the neighborhood jazz clubs 
where the kids play for Cokes and 
coffee. When "Rock Island Line" was 
issued, he became the first jazz singer 
to hit the British best-seller lists. His 
record also caught on in the United 
States. American fans of this English 
hillbilly got a look at him this spring 
when he brought his skiffle group over 
and toured with the Harlem Globe- 
trotters basketball team, entertaining 
between halves. He never quite El- 
vised the kids, but an impressive num- 
ber of teens did squeal their delight. 

Bob Cort was first heard by a talent 
scout attending a "jazz barbecue" in 
London and was asked to record on 
the London label. In his band are 
three guitars, a bass and a washboard. 
He met his wife at a coffee bar in 
Knightsbridge and grew his beard at 
her request. His two top tunes are 
"Don't You Rock Me Daddy-O" and 
"It Takes a Worried Man to Sing a 
Worried Blues." Newly released are 
"Freight Train" and "Roll Jen Jenkins." 

Tommy Steele, in England, is con- 
sidered to be more rock 'n' roll than 
skiffle. He is a quiet, ordinary London 
lad who burst into the spotlight with 




Bearded Bob Cort set a new London 
fire at the Prince of Wales Theater. 

the same jet propulsion exhibited here 
by that quiet, ordinary Memphis lad 
called Presley. 

Mrs take-off point was another of those 
coffee bars. The owner asked him 
to sing a few rock 'n' roll numbers 
and the customers started to dance. 
The kid who had been a twenty-dollar- . 
a-week bellhop on a ship running be- 
tween New York and Bermuda sud- 
denly became England's flash hit. Last 
spring, he starred in a biographical 
movie, "The Tommy Steele Story." In 
the States, his new recording of "But- 
terfingers" and "Teen-Age Party" is 
catching on. Whether he follows it with 
a personal appearance tour may de- 
pend on the state of his health. He 
was rejected for the draft because of 
a heart condition. Some fans think he 
should not be permitted to continue his 
energy -consuming stage gyrations, but 
Tommy has gone right on rocking and 
rolling. 

Skiffle, with its strong stimulus to- 
ward American ways, draws some sharp 
criticism from traditionalists. They 
often voice their protests in letters to 
the editors of the tabloid newspapers. 

It would comfort the writers, I be- 
lieve, if they could pay a visit to New 
York's Washington Square on a Sun- 
day afternoon. In this historic park, 
there is a decommissioned fountain. Its 
foundation becomes a bowl in which 
students and the talented young en- 
tertainers from Greenwich Village 
gather. Singers surround instrumental 
groups. On a recent Sunday, I counted 
twelve guitars, three basses and seven 
washtubs. The washtubs carry a sort 
of mast — usually a broomstick — to 
which is attached a single string. The 
string is plucked at the same time the 
rhythm is beat out by the foot on the 
bottom of the tub. 

Most of the girls wore gray jumpers 
and black stockings. Many of the boys 
had bulky sweaters and duffle jackets. 
You couldn't tell from the attire 
whether you were in Washington 
Square or Trafalgar Square. The T 
sound, too, was the same. Their favor- v 
ite song was "It Takes a Worried Man R 
to Sing a Worried Blues." 

Skiffle has again jnmrtpd the Atlantic. 



TEMPEST AT A TURNTABLE 




10 



Jerry Lewis apparently loved the Faye treatment, 
came out unscathed after over an hour with Marty. 



According to WAAF's outspoken deejay, Marty 
Faye, broadcasting can only stand to benefit from 
a good dose of "obnoxious irritation." Marty, 
alternately loved and hated by his audiences, has 
long been a master of the hard sell and frantic 
harangue. But, by a sort of "reverse psychology," 
his heckling of Chicago airwaves has paid off. . . . 
Each Monday through Friday from noon to 2 P.M., 
Marty gives the new releases a turn, then slays 
'em with a caustic dig or two, and "buries" 'em in 
"Marty's Morgue." Then, last year's "sacred cows" 
of pop music get a going-over. But there's never 
any ill will behind the barbed-wire wit, and many 
top stars appreciate the fact that a rap on the 
Marty Faye Show amounts to stirring up a hurri- 
cane in record sales in the Windy City. . . . 
Brooklyn-born Marty didn't come by his theatrical 
instincts by accident. Nature planned it that way, 
giving him a sister, Frances Faye, a well-known 
night-club and recording star, and a cousin, Danny 
Kaye. Via the circuitous route of law school and a 
summer "pitch" job in Atlantic City, he found 
himself in front of a TV camera with "a fire burning 
inside ... I could have sold horses to an auto- 
mobile dealer." Of a cross-country tour of TV 
stations, Marty recalls, "They hated me in New York, 
they hated me in Birmingham, they hated me in 
Atlanta . . . but, they listened." ... In Chicago, 
appearing up to 70 times weekly, Marty was the 
man who'd pop up with his plug just when the 
matinee movie reached its climax. Kids would ask 
him on the street, "Hey, aren't you the guy who 
ruins all the movies?" — to which Faye would reply, 
faking a glower, "Yeah, that's me. The name's 
Marty Faye. Don't forget it." He still haunts the 
movie viewers — chases WBKB-TVs Sunday to 
Thursday Late Show with forty minutes (ll:20-mid- 
night) of inimitable heartburn, and no one forgets. 
Once, at Soldiers' Field, 60,000 rose up in a body to 
pitch pop bottles, peanuts, everything, as Marty 
rode by. As he tells it, "Brother, I had arrived." . . . 
When Marty arrives home at his North Side apart- 
ment, he throws in the sponge for the day and enjoys 
a huge record collection on hi-fi with wife Vivian. 
Despite a heart-rending plea from four-year-old 
daughter Sydney Fran — "Daddy, don't be so mean 
to Elvis Presley, the kids at nursery school won't 
like me any more" — Marty knows his own infamous 
style fills a real need in broadcasting. Like his mail 
pull, which runs the gamut from love letters to 
threats on his life, radio should be willing to be a 
little schizophrenic. Too much of the "soft sell," 
the relaxed charm, he feels, can put listeners to sleep. 
To WAAF listeners, Marty Faye's no soporific. 



When they sent threatening letters 

and started throwing things, 

WAAF's Marty Faye figured he'd arrived! 




Columbia's Four Lads and bearded Mitch Miller reciprocate 
Marty's "burial" of their discs by surprise birthday cake. 




Sydney tries to reconcile Dad and nursery schoolers on 
Elvis issue. Wife Vivian keeps clear of the "dispute." 



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11 




When the music stops, Bob still leads a double life, as escort 
for wife Patricia and pal and teammate for elder son Douglas. 





Bob Maxwell is a hired musical 

hand on WWJ — but he's 

proprietor of his own competition 



HE'S 



12 



When ebullient Bob Maxwell acquired his own 
radio station in April, he found himself playing 
both ends against a musical middle. Bob is on the 
payroll of Detroit's Station WWJ as a deejay. He runs a 
dawn patrol of "music with a melody," each Monday 
through Saturday from 6 to 9 A.M., and presides over 
Music Over The Weekend, each Saturday from 1 to 
3:30 P.M. He's seen on TV with the Meet The Press 
commercials and is heard coast-to-coast as a guest 
communicator on NBC's Monitor. Then, on April Fool's 
Day, 1957, he got down to the serious business of opening 
his own Station WBRB in suburban Mt. Clemens. As the 
station's program director, Bob finds himself in the odd 
position of employing deejays to go on opposite his own 
programs on WWJ .... Born June 26, 1924, in the little 
town of Custer, Tennessee, where his family were 
sharecroppers, Bob was brought to Detroit when he was 
five. When his mother became fatally ill of tuberculosis, 
Bob spent two years in an orphanage, where he occupied 
himself by staging variety shows. He was spotted by 
an advertising executive who offered to use him on the 
dramatized commercials for the Ford Sunday evening 
hour. The pay was good and so, at the ripe old age of 
eleven, Bob decided to go into radio and also to study 



medicine. He appeared on such Detroit-produced shows 
as Lone Ranger and Green Hornet, switched to deejaying 
in 1940, running an all-night show on WEXL in Royal 
Oak and attending high school by day. He had just 
begun college and a pre-medical course when war 
came and he enlisted in the Navy, serving as a medic. 
He returned to college after the war, but radio and TV 
commitments prevented him from graduating .... Bob 
now has two sons — Douglas, 11, and Bob, Jr., 3 — and he 
hopes that one of them will realize his doctoring dreams. 
Bob and his wife Patricia love to entertain at their 
suburban Birmingham home, colonial in design, con- 
temporary in decor. Bob collects books, mostly science- 
fiction, and postage stamps, including many of Con- 
federate vintage in honor of his distant relative, Col. 
Breckenridge, Confederate Secretary of War. At Pa- 
tricia's request, Bob sold his racing cars, but he still 
owns a restored 1918 Maxwell (!) touring sedan. Bob 
also owns a collie named Amber, a private pilot's license, 
and a half- interest in Bluefield Farms, 418 acres in 
Kentucky devoted to raising thoroughbred horses. He'd 
like to retire there some day. But it's a distant future 
that will find Detroiters singing the blues because Bob 
Maxwell has retired to the land of the blue grass. 









INFORMATION BOOTH 



Oklahoma Kids 

Could you please give me some informa- 
tion on The Collins Kids, ivho're seen fre- 
quently on TV? D. S., Boston, Mass. 

That two kids are better than one, most 
people will admit. That two Collins Kids 
are "the best" in their field is incontesta- 
ble. The eldest, Lorrie (short for Lawren- 
cine ) . is almost 15, with a voice now under 
exclusive contract to Columbia Records. 
Larry, 13, takes over the harmony vocals, 
dances a bit and handles the large double- 
necked guitar like the country-music vet- 
eran he is. . . . The Kids' dad is an aircraft 
worker and their mother, though she plays 
at the piano, never aimed for a show-busi- 
ness career. But Larry and Lorrie har- 
monized almost before they could read or 
write the name of their home town of 
Tulsa, Oklahoma. Too busy to stop for a 
music lesson, the Collins Kids have been 
on KTTV-Los Angeles' Town Hall Party 
and heard on the NBC Radio network pro- 
gram of the same name. Other appear- 
ances as guests on the CBS Jack Carson 
Show and Bob Crosby Show and ABC- 
TV's Ozark Jubilee were followed by 
movie roles for the Kids at Universal-In- 
ternational. . . . When they aren't busy 
televising or recording such country hits 
as "Hush Money" or "The Rockaway 
Rock," the Kids attend Hollywood's Pro- 
fessional Children's School, where Lorrie 
will be a sophomore this fall and Larry an 
eighth-grader. Larry says he likes school 
"'all right," but prefers driving his midget 
auto or going swimming or rabbit hunting. 

Free-Lance Lancer 

Would you please give me some in- 
formation about Warren Stevens on 77th 
Bengal Lancers? C. Y., Keiser, Pa. 

Scranton-born Warren Stevens — Lt. 
Storm on the NBC-TV Lancers series — got 
his start in the entertainment world as a 



musician. Then, during high-school years, 
he found himself becoming more and more 
attracted to acting. Afraid to admit it to 
his family, who might have considered it a 
mere "boyish infatuation," he enlisted in 
the Navy and made Annapolis, instead. 
But only for a while. Warren met a certain 
Bob Porterfield, who owned the famous 
Barter Theater in Virginia, and decided to 
leave Annapolis for the part of the young- 
er brother in "Family Portrait." After that, 
it was a sprightly hop and skip to scholar- 
ship studies with Martha Graham, Sanford 
Meisner and Lehman Engel at Neighbor- 
hood Playhouse, and only a jump into the 
"blue yonder" of the Air Corps. . . . An Elia 
Kazan production was the turning point in 
his career. Though termed "a flop" by the 
critics, the play turned up several movie 
offers for the handsome, five-foot-ten actor. 
Broadway also took notice, and Warren 
landed "hit" material in "Detective Story" 
with Ralph Bellamy. . . . Since signing 
with 20th Century-Fox in 1950, he has 
been in 15 motion pictures and innumera- 
ble TV dramas. Now a free-lance Lancer, 
Warren lives with his wife, the former 
Lydia Minevitch, in the hills above Holly- 
wood. He has a son, Larry, 12, by a previ- 
ous marriage. 

Shavian Pin-up 

/ would like some information on Joi 
Lansing, one of the models on the CBS-TV 
Bob Cummings Show. C. S., Throop, Pa. 

Joi Lansing, a shapely blond pin-up 
type, has been studying her Ibsen and 
Shaw since high-school days. Complains 
Joi, "People don't believe I really want to 
be a dramatic actress. If you look sexy, 
they give you sexy parts." . . . Born Joy 
Loveland, Joi arrived in Hollywood via 
Salt Lake City and Ogden, Utah. As a 
Mormon, she neither drinks nor smokes. 
After high-school graduation, there was a 
considerable period devoted to serious 
reading, followed by a world junket — "to 





Warren Stevens 




Larry and Lawrencine Collins 



Joi Lansing- 



get experience" — playing the Air Force 
bases. In Hollywood, she hopes her first 
starring picture, "The Brave One," will 
lead to others. Meanwhile, she's in continu- 
ous demand for TV dramas and has also 
appeared regularly on the Bob Cummings 
Show as the photographer's model. TV is 
"hard work," according to Joi. "But, if 
you work hard at anything you want, 
you're bound to be a success at it." 

Calling All Fans 

The following fan clubs invite new 
members. If you are interested, write to 
address given — not to TV Radio Mirror. 

Pat Boone Fan Club, c/o Joan Gainer, 
913 N. York Rd., Willow Grove, Pa. 

Bill Haley and His Comets, c/o Claire 
Neveu, 201 Grove Street, Woonsocket, R. I. 

Allan Copeland Fan Club, c/o Irma Al- 
ber, 1600 Broadway, Watervliet, N. Y. 



FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's 
something you want to know about radio 
and television, write to Information Booth, 
TV Radio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., New 
York 17, N. Y. We'll answer, If we can, 
provided your question is of general, inter- 
est. Answers will appear in this column — - T 
but be sure to attach this box to your v 
letter, and specify whether it concerns B 
radio or TV. Sorry, no personal answers. 
13 




14 



Voice-wise, it's a who's who, as expert mimic Bill Ben- 
nett talks to ex-"Fat Jack" E. Leonard before show. 



The legal definition of "mayhem" reads threaten- 
ingly, to say the least. Bill Bennett could never be 
accused of "a willful and violent affliction of bodily 
harm in order to annoy an adversary." Simple! He 
has no adversaries. When "Brother Bill" signs on-air 
at 6 A.M. for a three-hour deejay stint, and again 
at 11 for Mayhem In The Ayem, even the birds in the 
Twin Cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul tune in to 
WDGY. The proof is in the writing: "Dear Mr. 
Bennett," one note reads. "Enclosed is a picture of our 
parakeet, Pixie. As you can see, he's listening to the 
radio and it happens to be your program, too." To 
which Bill grins, "Proof? This just goes to prove 
my show is really 'for the birds.' "... One of the 
most likeable in the radio business, the versatile young 
emcee and entertainer was brought to WDGY by 
Todd Storz, who recognized a find for his new station. 
Bill was largely responsible for jumping the station's 
ratings from a rocky "low" to "number one 
independent" for the area. Adored by teenagers, 
hounded by gag fans, besieged by phone calls, 
there's a perpetual smile on the boyish face and a 
joke is ready for any occasion. . . . And this, in 
spite of a staggering schedule. Besides the two 
morning shows, he emcees Saturday nights at the Prom 
Ballroom, sharing billing with top stars. During 
the week, Bill's out on the road for his "favorite 
extracurricular," one-night stands of emceeing, singing 
and mimicking. Paying attention to teenagers' 
extracurriculars, too, he recently started a teen- 
interest column circulating in 130 school papers in 
the area. . . . Come Sunday and Bill folds his tent 
and "steals away" home. But the comedy sneaks in by 
the back door, according to his lovely wife Jo. 
Sundays tempt Bill to work on his teen-slated magic 
and clown routines. . . . Not so many years ago, 
teenager Bill, "most popular boy" in his class, stopped 
short of nothing to entertain and make people laugh. 
At the time of his class play, when he fell off the 
stage and landed in the pit, his sole commentary went, 
"It was getting pretty dull around there." . . . 
Bill's first break followed soon after a young station 
manager took a look at Bill and "suggested," in his 
most V.I.P. manner, "Boy, you'll never make it as 
a radio personality. Let's try you in sales." So, 
it was sales for two years, till he sold himself as a 
deejay. Radio audiences have been buying Brother 
Bill's airwaves' stock-in-trade ever since. 



OH, BROTHER! 

WDGTs "Brother Bill" Bennett 
just slays 'era in the ayem 




Bill, second from right, shines along with The Three 
Suns, typical bright guest stars on his ayem show. 




Kuldip Singh, at left, of Groucho fame, is emceed 
by Bill, who's busy with a "favorite extracurricular." 



What's New on the West Coast 



(Continued from page 7) 



now spends the afternoon sunning itself 
on Elvis' M-G-M patio, doesn't like to go 
back into its cage at night, has a glossy 
gray-brown coat of fur which is made to 
gleam on a diet of apples (hand fed), sits 
up like a squirrel to eat, hops like a kan- 
garoo, and is named "Wallaby." Rumor 
has it that it was this pint-sized pet that 
knocked out Presley's tooth, but he's too 
embarrassed to admit it. 

Beards 'n' Boots: If you think you are 
seeing a younger version of the Smith 
Brothers walking down Hollywood Boule- 
vard, it's probably Lawrence Welk's ar- 
ranger, George Cates, and Welk's newly 
signed clarinetist, Pete Fountain. Both 
sport goatees. Cates, musical supervisor of 
Welk's shows, grew his beard during an 
illness, vowed he wouldn't shave until he 
was well again, and then never shaved it 
off at all. Twenty-six-year-old Pete Foun- 
tain grew his beard on a dare, while play- 
ing jazz in New Orleans over the past five 
years. . . . The moment Betty White was to 
meet ABC-TV president, Leonard Gold- 
enson, and introduce her new show, Date 
With The Angels, on a coast-to-coast 
closed-circuit hook-up, the heel of her shoe 
broke. It just so happened that Alice Lon 
was present, and wearing the same shade 
of blue dress and matching shoes as Betty. 
More coincidentally, they both have the 
same Cinderella-size foot, 5A. After the 
show, Betty pointed to the lovely Alice, 
sitting barefoot beside the president. 



Incidental Intelligence: Cheyenne's Clint 
Walker added a covered wagon to his new 
Vespa motor scooter, now takes his seven- 
year-old daughter Valerie with him while 
he prospects for uranium. Valerie thought 
prospecting a bore until Clint, knowing 
she adored him as "Cheyenne," got out of 
blue jeans and changed into his TV cos- 
tume. . . . Yvonne DeCarlo, who has a De- 
cember date with the stork, has blueprinted 
plans for a new TV series next season in 
which she'll star as a femme Robin Hood. 
. . . Cedric Hardwicke — and he likes being 
called "Mister," not "Sir" — celebrated his 
forty-fifth year as an actor while rehearsing 
a role in Climax! The three-layer cake, in- 
scribed "An Actor's Actor," was presented 
by Michael Rennie. . . . They had to make 
room for daddy, Danny Thomas, when he 
played the Sands night club in Las Vegas. 
It was S.R.O. inside, so Danny did an im- 
promptu show for the people outside who 
couldn't get past the velvet rope. . . . 
Jeanne Cagney's daughter, Mary Ann, is 
celebrating her second birthday. . . . Did 
you know that Spike Jones once beat the 
drums in a recording band for Bing Cros- 
by? "It was a nice steady job," says Spike, 
"but I kept falling asleep." . . . Gale 
Storm's "Dark Moon" has passed Bonny 
Guitar's original version of the same song 
and gone well over the million mark. (Both 
are on a Dot label.) Another record set by 
Gale: Both her sponsors, Nestle Co. and 
Helene Curtis, have just signed her Oh! 
Susanna for ninety-one consecutive weeks. 



What's New on the East Coast 



(Continued from page 5) 



Connecticut. Says he, "I got a brook and 
I will put my feet in the water and fish 
and count my money." Ken Carson will 
get in two weeks of Florida golf and then 
make personal appearances at state fairs. 
Denise Lor stands on a woman's preroga- 
tive and remains undecided. Garry, him- 
self, is in a rut, or is it a trough? He will 
cruise off New England with the family. 
. . . There's Moore of Garry's favorite 
horn-man, Wild Bill Davison, in Columbia 
album, "With Strings Attached." 

Backstage Drama: One serial star was 
undergoing the worst kind of anguish this 
season and being very mum about it. 
Melba Rae, who is Marge in Search For 
Tomorrow, was looking forward to the 
most exciting event of her life, her first 
child. With artist-husband Gil Shawn, she 
shared such enthusiasm that they talked 
about little else. Early spring, they moved 
from a small, charming Greenwich Village 
flat to a large apartment on Riverside 
Drive. Suddenly, in March, Melba was 
rushed to the hospital and gave birth to 
premature twins. ("I'd been X-rayed, but 
there had been no sign of twins.") The 
baby girl weighed two pounds and eight 
ounces. The boy weighed two and six. 
("We were warned to wait twenty-four 
hours before we told anyone outside of 
her parents.") Twenty hours later, the 
girl died. The boy went into an incubator 
at Premature Center in the New York 
Hospital. Melba was told she could not 
take the baby home until he reached five 
pounds, and Gil was told not to give out 
any cigars until baby came home. They 
had a live son, but its life was not a cer- 
tain thing. At one point, the baby dropped 
down to two pounds, but then began to 
gain steadily. On Mother's D^v. he was 



five pounds and four ounces and Melba 
took him home. "He's good and lovable," 
says Melba. "He has auburn hair and 
enormous blue eyes. We call him Eric 
Henry. Eric after my grandfather and 
Henry after Gil's father." The Monday 
after the baby got home, Gil went down 
to his office loaded with candy and cigars. 

Bloody or Dead: Big Story cancelled end 
of this summer. West Point and Bucca- 
neers axed, too. Robert Montgomery Pre- 
sents will definitely not return in fall. 
Also death rattle for Ford Theater. ... Of 
course, there are happy sponsors. Kraft 
celebrated its tenth year and Godfrey is 
up to his eyeballs in teaballs. It was July 
25, 1947, that Lipton first sponsored Old 
Ironsides. And then, Oh! Susanna and 
Person To Person have had renewals and 
The Lone Ranger will ride again. Gisele 
MacKenzie, who debuts her show in the 
fall, has been fully sponsored since spring. 
So things are never so bad as they seem, 
and anyway, like army generals, TV shows 
don't die, they just fade away. There's the 
Durante show, off TV almost two years. 
It's back again this summer, replacing 
Gleason, who was recently axed but who 
will likely replace Steve Allen in 1959. 
And see if you can follow this one: The 
Champions replaced Private Secretary, 
which in turn replaced The Brothers. 
Private Secretary has now been replaced 
by My Favorite Husband. Joan Caulfield, 
once star of My Favorite Husband, re- 
turns this fall in a new filmed comedy 
series, Sally, co-starring Marion Lome, 
on NBC-TV Sundays at 7:30. Marion 
Lome gained TV fame in this same time 
slot when it was occupied by Mr. Peepers, 
which was replaced by Circus Boy, which 
moves to ABC and replaces . . . etcetera. 



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15 




Even in July, the "North Pole" at 
the Village is covered with frost. 



At the Enchanted Castle, Bill and 
young Robert feed the black swan. 



Bill jumps as the giant Jack-in- 
the-Box nods its greeting to him. 



It could be you, says Bill Leyden, 
enjoying the sun at Santa's Village 




Santa himself welcomes Sue and Bill Leyden, 
Robert Chadwick, 7, Denise and Paula Benson, 
aged 6 and I I, while little John Benson finds 
playmates just his size among the baby goats. 



Bill Leyden is emcee of Ralph Edwards' It Could 
Be You, as seen on NBC-TV, M-F, 12:30 P. M. EDT. 



Yes, there is a Santa Claus. The only point of disputation is: 
Where does he live? Some people plunk for the North 
Pole. But, each year, a million other people take the 
Rim-of-the-World Highway (State Highway 18), drive a mile- 
high into the San Bernardino Mountains, and stop when 
they've reached never-never land, more officially known as 
Skyforest, California. Here is Santa's Village and, unlike the 
North Pole, it's much more than a postal address. Fourteen 
fantastical buildings nestle among the pines, and here, 
together with elves and animals, live Mr. and Mrs. Claus. 
Santa is here to greet his visitors 364 days a year. On 
Christmas Day, he's away on urgent business. In winter, the 
scene is snow-covered. But even in July, it's still Christmas 
here. Newlyweds Sue and Bill Leyden gathered up four 
young friends to prove that, when it's a question of 
the happiest kind of fairy tales coming true, it could be you! 



There's a sleigh and reindeer, of course. But for a ride through 
the Enchanted Forest, visitors take Cinderella's Pumpkin coach. 







o 




V7? 




<*k 





sheerest luxury perfected protection 



make New Modess your own discovery this month 





A showdown must finally come in 
the tangled affairs of these 
three — Anthony Franciosa, Eva 
MarieSaint, husband Don Murray. 



TV 



RADIO 
MIRROR 



20 



TV favorites on 

your theater screen 

By JANET GRAVES 
A Hatful of Rain 

20th, cinemascope 
Though this powerful movie is adapted from 
a Broadway play, it has the quietly realistic, 
outspoken manner of the best TV dramas, 
and all its leading players are familiar to 
television fans. As the war veteran tor- 
mented by dope addiction, Don Murray gives 
a strongly emotional performance. He is 
matched by Eva Marie Saint, as the wife 
who could offer help and sympathy if only 
she were given her husband's full confidence. 
But Anthony Franciosa towers over both, 
with his compelling portrayal of the brother 
deeply involved in the addict's situation. And 
Lloyd Nolan, as the bluff, unimaginative 
father, shows why this family is threatened 
by tragedy. Background scenes shot in New 
York City give extra conviction to a story 
of unusual force. 

Bernardine 

20th, cinemascope, de luxe color 
Already established as a TV, radio and re- 
cording personality, Pat Boone steps into 
the movie-acting department with surprising 




ease. He's cast as leader of a group of 
teenagers — nice kids all, without a delin- 
quent in the lot. Their chief problem centers 
around the romantic quest of young Richard 
Sargent, who has fallen madly in love with 
Terry Moore. Trying to be the loyal pal, 
Pat succeeds only in complicating Dick's life. 
And Janet Gaynor, as Dick's widowed moth- 
er, now considering a second marriage, exhib- 
its the same pert charm in maturity as she 
did in youth. 

Dino 

ALLIED ARTISTS 

Widely acclaimed as a TV play, this story 
of slum boyhood hits the larger screens with 
equal impact. Sal Mineo does an excellent 
job as the boy just released from reform 
school, after serving a term on a robbery 
and murder charge. As the psychiatrist at 
the local settlement house, Brian Keith 
takes a personal interest in Sal's case, and 
the gentle attentions of young Susan Kohner, 
another settlement-house worker, also ex- 
ert a healing influence. 

The Delicate Delinquent 

PARAMOUNT, VISTAVISION 

Now that Dean Martin has shown what he 
can do on his own in "Ten Thousand Bed- 
rooms," Jerry Lewis goes into solo action 
with a hard-to-classify picture of tenement 
life in New York. As a youngster who 
gets hauled into a police station on a de- 



linquency accusation, Jerry is utterly inno 
cent. But he arouses the concern of Darren 
McGavin, a crusading cop, and Martha Hyer, 
a lady politico who believes in getting tough 
with the trouble-making kids. Jerry's role 
oddly combines serious acting with his fa- 
miliar clowning. He does one song, "By 
Myself," which is neatly staged and worked 
logically into the course of the story. 



At Your Neighborhood Theaters 






Beau James (Paramount, VistaVision 
Technicolor) : As New York mayor Jimmy 
Walker, Bob Hope symbolizes the spirit of 
the Jazz Age. Paul Douglas and Darren 
McGavin take key roles in the colorful 
political intrigues; Alexis Smith and Vera 
Miles are the ladies in Bob's life. 



: 



The Lonely Man (Paramount, VistaVi- 
sion) : Winner of TV's Emmy for best acting. 
Jack Palance has a strong role as a supposed 
desperado, who tries to settle down and win 
the affections of his hostile son, Anthony 
Perkins. Elaine Aiken is the girl that both 
men love. 



: 

1 



The Buster Keaton Story (Paramount, 
VistaVision) : Donald O'Connor goes dead- 
pan to play the sober-faced comic of silent- 
film days. Ann Blyth and Rhonda Fleming 
supply romantic interest, but fine old Keaton 
gags are the big attraction. 







Can a doctor live like a human being ? 

an a doctor be a devoted husband to his wife, a loving father to his children? 

an he ever afford to feel angry, hurt or proud? Or must he always put his 
amily and his feelings second? Does a man give up his right to live like 
Dther men when he takes the Hippocratic oath? Day after day, Dr. Jerry 
Malone and his family live out this conflict. Live it with them on radio. You 
san get the whole story — even while you work — when you listen to daytime 
radio. Listen to YOUNG DR. MALONE on the CBS RADIO NETWORK. 

Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time. 




By GORDON BUDGE 

Take one busy married couple, two successful careers, 
three lively young children. Put 'em under the 
same roof . . . and the result might well be bedlam. 
But, for Bill Williams and Barbara Hale, it's a bit of 
heaven, and their youngsters — Jody, 10; Billy, Jr., 6; 
Nita, 4— are three little angels . . . well, almost angels. 

Bill and Barbara are a busy couple indeed, and 
both their careers have just gone into high gear, 
TV-wise. Bill, long known on television as venture- 
some Kit Carson, has just hurdled neatly from 
horse-opera to humor, now plays opposite charming 
Betty White in the rollicking new domestic comedy, 
Date With The Angels, over ABC-TV. And hazel- 
eyed Barbara has just been cast as Delia Street, 
witty "Girl Friday" to famed lawyer-sleuth Perry 
Mason, whose offbeat adventures in detection will 
be seen over CBS-TV starting this fall. 

Speaking of Date With The Angels — specifically, 
of Bill and Betty as Mr. and Mrs. Gus Angel — Barbara 
says, in mock horror, "I'd no sooner been cast as 
Delia Street than my husband turned up with 
another wife! I'm thinking of calling Perry Mason 
in on this. Already, Betty and I kid each other about 
which of us sees more of Bill. She's with him 
four days each week — and I have him on weekends." 

Speaking of her own three little angels at home, 

Continued^ 






Barbara makes the most of family weekends with Bill. 
Four days a week, she must share him with his TV wife, 
Betty White (below, right), in Date With The Angels. 



Little Nita's had a busy day — and plenty 
from the barbecue — so it's one big goodni 
daddy Bill, before Barbara packs her off to 



of burgers 
ght kiss for 
dreamland. 




ts. 



1 



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AS together: Barbara and Bill, with Nita (left), Billy Junior, Jody — and "Punch," their collie. 



Heaven, for Bill Williams, is that date-for-life with 

a lovely girl named Barbara Hale—and those three lively youngsters 



23 



(Continued) 

Barbara adds, "Betty has offered to take the children, 
too. And there are times — like today — when I 
would gladly share the joys of motherhood. Look 
at this house! This morning, we began a formal 
weeding party in the garden. Then came the weed 
fights — climaxed by tag through the living room. I feel 
like the old witch of the North Woods, and I'm tired 
of saying, 'No, hon. . . .' Do you know anyone 
who would care to take in three really sweet- 
natured but wild-horse children?" 

All kidding aside, that weeding session is only 
part — along with numerous other activities the 
Williamses undertake together — of Barbara's and Bill's 
plan to make up for the time their jobs separate them 
from their family. "I joined the Perry Mason 
series," Barbara says earnestly, "because I felt it 
would help the children, not hurt them. To my way of 
thinking, any woman with husband and children to 
look after can be called a 'working mother.' For 
instance, when Bill and I were at one of our infrequent 
parties, the other night, I heard one of the girls say, 
'I'm sorry, but we're going to have to leave now 
... I have to get up at six A.M. with the kids.' Believe 
me, I know that by the time her day is through — 
what with PTA, church and charity work, the Camp 
Fire Girls, and any dozen or more activities that 
demand her time — she well deserves the 
title of 'working mother.' 

"Point is," Barbara stresses, "that the husband and 
wife are sharing some common goal, some dream 
of the future. That's why I (Continued on page 72) 

Bill Williams is Gus in Date With The Angels, on ABC-TV, Fri., 
10 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by the Plymouth Dealers of America. 



Billy wants to be an Indian — if he 
can't be Kit Carson, like his dad. 



Nita and Billy love to go marketing 
with Mom and Dad. Wonder why? 




Niece Dianne Falness watches Barb 
cut hasty sandwiches for bike ride. 




rr- 



Champ swimmer Bill gives Billy and Nita water-skiing 
tips on Saturdays. Sundays, it's time to go to church — 
and Jody and Nita give their all to some hymn practice. 




Barb's own father is a top landscape architect — so 
she's sure to pick a fine tree fern for their garden. 



Billy just might be an Indian yet (Cleveland, that is). 
He swings a big-league bat, as Bill catches and coaches. 






Champ swimmer Bill gives Billy and Nita water-skiing 
tips on Saturdays. Sundays, it's time to go to church- 
and Jody and Nita give their all to some hymn practice 



(Continued) 

Barbara adds, "Betty has offered to take the children, 
too. And there are times— like today— when I 
would gladly share the joys of motherhood. Look 
at this house! This morning, we began a formal 
weeding party in the garden. Then came the weed 
fights— climaxed by tag through the living room. I feel 
like the old witch of the North Woods, and I'm tired 
of saying, 'No, hon. . . .' Do you know anyone 
who would care to take in three really sweet- 
natured but wild-horse children?" 

All kidding aside, that weeding session is only 
part — along with numerous other activities the 
Williamses undertake together — of Barbara's and Bill's 
plan to make up for the time their jobs separate them 
from their family. "I joined the Perry Mason 
series," Barbara says earnestly, "because I felt it 
would help the children, not hurt them. To my way of 
thinking, any woman with husband and children to 
look after can be called a 'working mother.' For 
instance, when Bill and I were at one of our infrequent 
parties, the other night, I heard one of the girls say, 
'I'm sorry, but we're going to have to leave now 
... I have to get up at six A.M. with the kids.' Believe 
me, I know that by the time her day is through — 
what with PTA, church and charity work, the Camp 
Fire Girls, and any dozen or more activities that 
demand her time — she well deserves the 
title of 'working mother.' 

"Point is," Barbara stresses, "that the husband and 
wife are sharing some common goal, some dream 
of the future. That's why I (Continued on page 72) 

Mill Williams is Cus in Dale With The Angels, on ABC-TV. Fri., 
10 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by the Plymouth Dealers of America. 



Billy wants to be an Indian- 
can't be Kit Carson, like his 



■if he 
dad. 





My Sentimental 




My boy has his faults, but he's 

been a good son — and, someday, 

he'll be a good husband and father 

By GRACE SANDS 



Two little girls waved to me the other day and 
said, "Hello, Tommy's mother." I used to be Grace 
Sands; now I'm "Tommy's mother." That's fame. 
But it has its compensations. I get special attention 
these days from the young clerks at the supermarket, 
and all sorts of nice people smile to me on the street 
and say, "Saw you on This Is Your Life — Tommy 
looked wonderful." 

This change in our fortunes has not been lost on my 
son. He teases me about it. "Say, Mama, you're 
not doing laundry?" he'll say, in mock shocked tones, 
as he comes into the kitchen while I'm washing out 
his socks. "Remember, you're 'Tommy's mother' 
now." Then we have a good laugh as I go right on 
with my chores. 

Not that I mean to talk down the wonderful success 
that has been coming to my boy lately. What 
mother would? It's what he worked for, dreamed 
about, gave twelve years to. But, just for a change, I 
can't help thinking, Wouldn't it be poetic justice if 
some fine day someone rushed (Continued on page 80) 



At 19, he's the youngest subject Ralph Edwards ever had 
on This Is Your Life. Close friend Biff Collie (center) 
is the Texas deejay who put Tommy on his TV show — at 12 




Tommy and I have a deep affection, but I think he'll 
marry early. He started his career early, you know, and 
he'll never forget the big boost Cliffie Stone, below, 
gave him — and Molly Bee— on Hometown Jamboree. 




That great guy from Tennessee, Ernie Ford (right), 
was proud as I was, when Ken Nelson of Capitol, gave 
Tommy a gold record for his "Teen-Age Crush" success. 











1 



the Truth about POLLY 



Miss Bergen is three people 

in one — and a recognizable success in 

each and every personification 




It was dislike at first sight — until Freddie Fields played 
porter and both he and Polly got carried away. 



By MARTIN COHEN 

About a half-dozen years ago, Polly Bergen, 
then an M-G-M starlet, made a personal 
appearance at a fair in Lubbock, Texas. All 
over town, she saw huge posters, "Presenting the 
Famous Singer, Dancer, Actress — Polly Burger." 
Polly says, "Maybe twenty-five percent of it was 
true. I had been singing since I was a baby, 
but I was just in the elementary business of 
learning to act and dance. Of course, they spelled 
my last name like 'hamburger' — which proves 
they were really kidding themselves about 
my being famous!" 

Since then, as dancer, singer and/or actress, 
Polly has headlined the country's chic clubs, made a 
dozen movies and starred (Continued on page 66) 

Polly Bergen is a regular panelist on To Tell The Truth, as 
seen on CBS-TV, each Tuesday at 9 P.M. EDT, and sponsored 
by Pharmaceuticals, Inc. for Geritol and for other products. 




Tinker Bell lays claim to nine lives, but Polly's happy with just 
three. She mixes being a career girl, wife and mother as har- 
moniously as she combines modern and antique decor at home. 




m ; 




Beauty and function are the keynotes. The dressing-room walls 
are doors to huge closets. In the living room, below, the clay 
boxer was sculpted by Polly — a photographer and pianist, too. 






of Omisr Teen-age Kids? 



Humorist-humanitarian Sam Levenson 
has strong words for children 
who rebel against authority — and 
for parents who can't say "No!" 

By GLADYS HALL 





Mother Levenson encourages four- 
year-old Emily to dress herself. 



Nothing so fine as a bathroom 
duet for father-and-son solidarity. 



Sam Levenson has taught son Conrad to be independent. 
Each week he adds to allowance money by washing fam- 
ily car, taping Sam's TV show for him. The Levensons are 
a musical family, love their three-guitar, piano combo. 




Isn't it dangerous, as many church leaders and 
teachers and social workers believe, for teenagers to 
go steady? If we, the parents, also recognize the 
danger, why don't we forbid them to do so? 

Should twelve-year-old girls be allowed to wear lip- 
stick — and falsies? 

Should sixteen-year-old boys be permitted to have 
cars of their own? 

When a teen-age son or daughter starts to smoke at 
an earlier age than we believe good for them, isn't it 
up to us to say "No" — and mean it? 

When we have reason to believe that our teen-age 
boys and girls are making the kind of friends that will 
do them no good, aren't we obligated to signal 
"Thumbs down" — and keep them down? 

When we tell a teen-age son or daughter that ten 
o'clock is curfew, shouldn't the teenager observe the 
curfew — or be penalized? 

If we disapprove of our kids hanging around the 
candy store on the corner, playing rock 'n' roll records 
the clock around, to the detriment of their home- 
work and other duties, why don't we lay down the law 
to them — and see to it that the law is kept? 



r B , HE proper answer to each of these questions, and 

many others like them, is as clear as the difference 
between right and wrong itself, yet it is obvious — as 
the juvenile-delinquency problem bears sad witness — 
that too many of us do not make the right answers. 

Why don't we? 

"Because we are afraid of these kids," says Sam 
Levenson, "mortally afraid!" 

As one of eight youngsters, with six brothers and 
a sister, brought up in the (Continued on page 82) 

Sam Levenson is the genial quipmaster of Two For The Money, as 
seen -on CBS-TV each Saturday evening from 8:30 to 9 P.M. EDT. 



From the Fields o 



Lawrence Welk heard music in the wind, the sun, the 

earth . . . and felt the very heartbeat of America 

By MAXINE ARNOLD 





Homesteaders Ludwig and Kristina Welk 



Four hundred dollars!" The farm- 
er stopped his plough and looked 
at his next-to-youngest son, who 
was working in the field with him. 
His son Lawrence, who was afire 
with this talk of an accordion he'd 
seen in the new catalogue. . . . Lud- 
wig Welk's face was troubled. He 
looked around him in the fields, with 



This farm boy's dream — an accordion. 







THE DAKOTAS 




with baby Lawrence in his mother's lap. 



an immigrant's love for the roots 
he'd put down in this generous new 
land. This North Dakota farmland 
he'd homesteaded for his family. 
Here were their roots, top. They 
should stay here with the land . . . 
and harvest life here. 

Now seventeen-year-old Law- 
rence was turning his back on that 



Eight children now: Ludwig and Kristina with — left to right — Lawrence, 
little Mike, John, Louis, youngest daughter Eva (now a nurse in Aberdeen, 
South Dakota), Ann Mary, Barbara, Agatha. Four sturdy sons Ludwig was 
sure would farm the rich American land he and his wife had come from far- 
off Europe to find . . . but Lawrence was to pioneer in quite another field. 



Continued 



► 



Lawrence as a 



musical 



jtadc 



It was with George Kelly (lower right) and Mrs. Kelly that the youthful 
Lawrence first learned show business. If it hadn't been for their teaching, 
he says with deepest gratitude, "I don't think I could ever have made it." 




From the Fields of THE DAKOTAS 



Lawrence Welk heard musk in the wind, the sun, the 

earth . . . and felt the very heartbeat of America 

By MAXINE ARNOLD 





Homesteaders Ludwig and Kris+ina Well 



Four hundred dollars!" The farm- 
er stopped his plough and looked 
at his next-to-youngest son, who 
was working in the field with him. 
His son Lawrence, who was afire 
with this talk of an accordion he'd 
seen in the new catalogue. . . • Lud- 
wig Welk's face was troubled. He 
looked around him in the fields, with 



This farm boy's dream — an accordion. 




V 




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1 


■ , 


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'ith baby Lawrence in his mother's lap. 



an immigrant's love for the roots 
he'd put down in this generous new 
land. This North Dakota farmland 
he'd homesteaded for his family. 
Here were their roots, too. They 
should stay here with the iand . . . 
and harvest life here. 

Now seventeen-year-old Law- 
rence was turning his back on that 

Lawrence as a musical "matador." 



Eight children now: Ludwig and Kristina with — left to right — Lawrence, 
little Mike, John, Louis, youngest daughter Eva (now a nurse in Aberdeen, 
South Dakota), Ann Mary, Barbara, Agatha. Four sturdy sons Ludwig was 
sure would farm the rich American land he and his wife had come from far- 
off Europe to find . . . but Lawrence was to pioneer in quite another field. 

Continued w 



It was with George Kelly (lower right) and Mrs. Kelly that the youthful 
Lawrence first learned show business. If it hadn't been for their teaching, 
he says with deepest gratitude, "I don't think I could ever have made it." 




From the Fields of THE DAKOTAS 



(Continued) 




Lawrence Welk has good reason to remember South Dakota, too. 
In Yankton, he broadcast from WNAX with his new six-piece band 
(above) — and met his future bride. They were wed when he played 
a Sioux Falls date (below, with Chuck Coffee seated beside him). 




The Lawrence Welk Show, ABC-TV, Sat., 9 P.M., is sponsored by the Dodge Dealers of 
America. Lawrence Welk's Top Tunes And New Talent, ABC-TV, Mon., 9:30 P.M., for 
both Dodge and Plymouth. Welk's also heard on ABC Radio, including Sat., 10:05 P.M., 
and ABC's Dancing Party, M-F, 9:30 P.M.; check local papers. (All times given EDT) 




Today, in California, with his two 
teenagers, Lawrence, Jr. and Donna. 



land for a "gypsy" future that would 
never root down anywhere. And he 
wanted him to invest four hundred 
dollars in an accordion. ... Of 
course, he would pay the money 
back, every cent of it, Lawrence 
was saying. There in the middle of 
a wheat field, he was standing his 
ground. But, watching his father's 
face, he could feel that ground fast 
giving way under him. 

"We have no four hundred dollars 
to spend," his father said sternly. 
And he wouldn't buy it on credit. 
Lawrence knew that. Ludwig Welk 
had never bought anything on credit 
in his life. There could be a drouth, 
he would reason conscientiously. 
Something (Continued on page 76) 



Fern Renner, the girl he married — 
"perfect wife and perfect mother." 





Older daughter Shirley's wedding 
was a red-letter day for Lawrence. 



Another big occasion for the family: A visit from Person To Person 

— featuring, left to right, Shirley, Lawrence, Larry Junior and Donna. 



This Is Your Life! Lawrence and Fern on couch; Donna, Shirley and son-in-law Dr. Robert Emmett 
Fredericks behind them. Just behind host Ralph Edwards are sister Eva Welk (in dark dress), three of 
the Lennon Sisters, Larry (seated). Left to right, rear — Eddie Weisfeld, former Milwaukee theater: 
manager; the George Kellys; ballroom owner Tom Archer; Chuck Coffee; Jack Minor of Plymouth. 



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36 



The pears amounted to nothing, really — just a surprise gift to 

Sara from Mike to say again, "I love you." And in 

their happiness, neither sensed the growing threat to one they loved. 



Inexorably, the fatal threads weave to entangle Mike 
and Sara Karrs friends with Mike's duty as 
Assistant District Attorney — and pull them closer to . 



dg£e o-ff Ni 




Sara called and, when she hung up, Mike Karr 
looked across his desk at Willy and grinned at 
him. He indicated the memo he'd made on his "Assis- 
tant District Attorney" stationery. The memo said, 
Yellow pears, the sweet and juicy kind. Mike beamed. 
"It's pears this time, Willy." 

Willy grunted, but Mike couldn't suppress his en- 
thusiasm as he went on: "Do you know, Willy, you've 
made a mistake in not getting married?" 

Willy — Wilhelmus Bogart Bryan, III — did not an- 
swer. Mike felt that life was very good, nowadays. 
He and Sara'd had bad times, of course. Only a 
couple of months ago, things had looked rough. Sara 
was insisting on being a working wife, and Mike had 
been absorbed in his work, and they weren't getting 
along too well. But now he felt good all over. 

Willy would usually share his mood. He not only 
worked under Mike, as an investigator on the Dis- 
trict Attorney's staff, but he liked Mike. He dourly 
worshipped Sara. Now, though, he didn't smile. 
"Something on your mind?" asked Mike. "What?" 

Willy scowled at his fingers. In his own particular 
line of work, he was a perfectionist. Nobody would 
ever demand of him one-half what he demanded of 
himself, when something was to be investigated. 
Mike had especially asked for him when he himself 
was assigned to cooperate with the Citizens' Crime 
Commission in a campaign against the black market 
in babies. Willy'd been gathering background mate- 
rial. Now his expression was deadpan — too deadpan. 

"I hit on something," said Willy, at last. "I don't 
like it." 

Mike leaned back in his chair. As Assistant Dis- 
trict Attorney, one looked at things from a special 
viewpoint. One wasn't angry because people com- 
mitted crimes. One couldn't be. One had to take 
people as they came. Some came pretty bad. When 
Willy said he didn't like something, it didn't mean 
indignation — riot necessarily. 

"I think it's a black-market baby affair," said Willy, 
"and you wouldn't believe it." He scowled at the 
wall. "I was down in the City Hall, looking up some 
records. Births and deaths and so on. The thing I 
was working on called for it." 

"Well?" said Mike. 

"I saw the death record of a baby. Ten years back." 

"Well?" said Mike again. 



"I know the kid," said Willy vexedly. "He's ten 
years old and plays a good game of baseball, for a 
kid. But his death's on record." 

Mike frowned in his turn, watching Willy. "It 
smells a little," he observed. "You think it's black- 
market?" 

"Not the dead baby," said Willy. "The death cer- 
tificate's okay. It's signed by the same doctor who 
delivered the baby. I'd like to ask him, but he died 
six years ago. It looks like a baby died and somebody 
switched in another, without anybody finding it out. 
What do I do?" 

Mike understood. Willy had found a case he was 
reluctant to follow because it might hurt somebody. 
But he couldn't let it alone. 

"You've got discretion," said Mike. "Use it. If 
nobody's been hurt, if there's been no injustice — we 
don't take cases to court just to broadcast family se- 
crets. But if there's something wrong . . ." 

Willy nodded. "I'll check. I don't like it, though. 
I'd never suspected a thing, but I can make a guess 
why it was done. But how? And how bad was the 
how? It could be pretty bad indeed." 

He stood up abruptly. Mike folded the memo he'd 
made, and Willy said, "Watch that memo! Sara wants 
yellow pears — I think I know a place. I'll see. But 
you don't want to forget." 

He went out of the office. Mike turned back to his 
work. It wasn't all pleasant, the job of an Assistant 
District Attorney. In this black-market business, 
now. There'd been heartbreaking cases involving 
advantages taken of girls who were ashamed, threats 
of scandal, blackmail threats to claim a baby back 
when it had wound itself into the heartstrings of 
the people who'd gotten it. There isn't anything much 
lower than a racketeer who'll batten on the love of 
adults for children. 

When Mike went home that evening, he carried 
a box of pears. Each one was separately wrapped 
in tissue-paper. Sara bit into one instantly and 
beamed gratefully at him. "Oh, but it's good!" she 
said happily. "Am I a nuisance, Mike?" 

"Willy got them," Mike confessed. "It was his 
idea to have them gift-wrapped." Hanging up his 
coat, he asked, "What's news?" 

"I had company," she told him. "Mary Harper 
came over for a while. (Continued on page 61) 



The Edge Of Night is seen on CBS-TV, M-F, 4:30 to 5 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by The Procter & Gamble Company for Tide, Dreft, 
Spic and Span, Comet, and Lava. John Larkin and Teal Ames are pictured on opposite page in their roles as Mike and Sara Karr. 



A FICTION BONUS 




***■ 






In the Swim at Lake Arrowhead 




Up at Lake Arrowhead the water's the 
bluest, the mountains are the highest, 
the sun the brightest. And a redheaded 
singing angel named Carol Richards called 
it "Heaven." Carol first rented a house 
at Arrowhead to give her two daughters, Jean, 
who is twelve, and Judy, ten, a bang-up 
summer of fun. She and the girls fell in 
love with the place, so Carol bought the 
house. A housemother cares for. Jean and 
Judy during the week, while Carol has 
to be in Hollywood for her appearances on 
The Bob Crosby Show on CBS-TV. But, 
every weekend, she heads for "home" at 
Arrowhead with the girls. The days are 
crammed with boating, swimming, water- 
skiing, horseback riding and picnic excursions 
with the girls and the friends they've made 
at the Lake. There's an outdoor movie, 
fringed with tall pines — which frequently 
serve as free "seats" for adventurous little 
boys who lack the 50^ admission. Every 
Saturday night, the whole Village turns out 
for a community dance, the big social event 
of the week. For Carol and her two blond 
charmers, Arrowhead is absolute tops 
for living it up — in heaven under the sun! 

Carol Richards sings on The Bob Crosby Show, CBS- 
TV, M-F, 3:30 P.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship. 

Continued w 



With her two daughters, Carol Richards- 
singer on The Bob Crosby Show — 
lives a gay life in the sun 




Off for a water-skiing lesson, Carol's first attempt at the 
sport. Left to right (above) are Carol, Jean, Judy, their 
friend Sean Freeman and boat owner Bill Barlow. On the skis, 
Carol made twenty feet, dunked. Got the knack in three tries. 




In the Swim at Lake Arrowhead 



(Continued) 





First one up makes the beds. Carol does all 
the housekeeping, with the girls' help. Next 
comes sandwich time. The girls develop king- 
size appetites during their morning swim. 




Carol and daughter Judy lug a bale of laun- 
dry to the Village laundromat each Saturday. 
Both Judy and Jean help out with chores, know 
sharing work adds to time for family fun. 




Carol and Judy astride the mechanical horses 
in the Village. Both Carol and the girls also 
ride "live" horses, rented from the Village 
stable. Arrowhead boasts famous bridle paths. 




Dinner at "The Chalet." A treat, since the menu features 
fresh-caught trout. Gourmet diners enjoy watching through 
restaurant window as a fisherman catches their dinner. 
(Below) Carol, pretty as a picture, for Village dance. 




In Village for weekly shopping chores, Carol 
stops off for cooling drink. The fountain is 
spring-fed from the melting snows in near-by 
San Bernardino Mountains. Tastes wonderful! 




4* wSfii 



■ 




the Booties 

When we got married, we only knew 
we were in love. I never guessed 
Pat Boone, husband and student, 
would become Pat Boone, movie star ! 

By SHIRLEY BOONE 

as told to 

Maurine Remenih 



Probably 'most every girl across the country 
dreams of going to Hollywood some day. 
Many girls want to come out here to be 
seen, but most of them just want to come 
to see. That's what I'd always wanted to do. 
And I must say that I've got in an awful lot 
of "seeing" since Pat and I arrived in Hollywood 
last spring. Looking back on it, now that 
I've had a chance to settle down in our rented 
house and catch my breath, I guess it has 
been the most exciting, (Continued on page 63) 



All dressed up (and so excited), as Pat took me to my first for- 
mal Hollywood party — for Photoplay's Gold Medal Awards. 




My Pat was a "celebrity," too, 
singing at the Photoplay dinner. 



Stars galore! Eddie Fisher and Debbie 
Reynolds were just about the only ones 
I met that I'd already known back East. 





Come fall, Pat will head his own 
show on ABC-TV — just like my dad 
Red Foley, who has Ozark Jubilee. 



Go to HOLLYWOOD 




Our welcome. was warm — though we arrived the week Los Angeles had its first snowfall in years. 
Lunching at the 20th Century-Fox commissary was a Scene from "Bernardine" — left to right, Tom Pittman, 

treat for me — as well as for Lindy, Cherry and Debby. Richard Sargent, Pat, Val Benedict and Ronnie Burns. 




New Hot Singers of 1957 




They're flirting 

with fame! Here 

TV Radio Mirror presents 

this year's crop 

of hit-makers 

By HELEN BOLSTAD 




Sonny sightsees at the U.N., is sur- 
prised when fans recognize him — 
and consider Sonny quite a sight to 
see, too! Below, he talks shop with 
popular deejay Jerry Marshall. 



Playing New York's fabled Palace, recording for Capitol, Sonny James has it 
made — still remains a nice young bachelor "from Hackleburg, Alabama, ma'am." 



44 







ft* 



BCHIDS* 






-- 



Today, even Ed Sullivan smiles on Jimmy Bowen (left), Dave Alldred (center), Buddy Knox and Don Lanier — 
who started out with experiments in sound on paper-box drums and garbage-can iids, back home in Texas. 



Who is tomorrow's dreamboat? 
Whose songs will the teenagers 
choose as background music 
for the school year's first romance? 
Which vocalist in his twenties . . . 
or even in his teens . . . will win 
fame in a year when a disc-jockey's 
turntable literally becomes the 
wheel of fortune? 

It may be someone like Sonny 
James, who already has made a 



dramatic bid for attention. It may 
be some well-trained singer like 
Johnny Mathis, who has worked 
since childhood — and now, in the 
language of the entertainment busi- 
ness, is "ready to go." It may be 
someone like Tab Hunter, whose 
major interest has been in an allied 
field. It may be someone like 
Buddy Knox, Jimmy Bowen or 
Charlie Gracie, whose debut rec- 



ords "just took off." TV Radio 
Mirror herewith nominates at least 
fourteen such candidates bidding for 
top honors. Each has youth, voice, 
good looks, ambition, and a way 
with a song. 

Yet, promising as they are, they 
may all be surpassed by someone 
yet unknown . . . some lad who 
right now is sitting on a beach, 
holding hands with his girl, dream- 



The Rhythm Orchids had to wax fast for Roulette, to stockpile discs for Buddy's six-month tour of duty in the Army. 





BllSri 




New Hot Singers of 1957 




Tab Hunter gambled film career to 
make records for Dot music director 
Billy Vaughn and prexy Randy Wood. 




46 



Philadelphia's latest spectacular new- 
comer, Charlie Sracie, collects go- 
ing and coming. He sings on Cameo 
label — and he writes hit songs, too. 




Hollywood had always thought Tab was something to see, rather than hear! 



ing up a song and wondering how 
it would sound if he got some of the 
guys together and they tried cutting 
his tune on the neighbor's tape- 
recorder. 

Crazy? Of course, it is. Yet, be- 
cause this is the craziest year the 
recording industry has ever known, 
the home-town lad with the home- 
made song just might make it. 

Buddy Knox and Jimmy Bowen — 



the students who simultaneously put 
two songs, "Party Doll" and "I'm 
Sticking With You," into the top 
hits — first worked out sound effects 
by setting up tape-recorders at 
night and shouting down the corri- 
dors of the speech building while 
their pals Dave Alldred and Don 
Lanier beat out the rhythm on a 
paper box and the lid of a garbage 
can. Home-made sound, all the way. 



Charlie's not ready to marry yet — "but when I do, I want a home-type girl." His 
favorite audience is still his parents and younger brothers, Robert and Frank. 






Dean now holds M-G-M contracts to 
make not only records but big musicals. 
Above, at studio with Lauren Baca II-. 




With Dean Jones, it was his singing voice which won him a film career. Dean on Steve Allen Show — via "remote. 



Johnny Cash, who can swing a 
prairie ballad over into the pop 
field, was a hungry young appliance 
salesman when he asked two 
friends, then garage mechanics, if 
they'd help him out by playing 
guitar and bass when he sang one 
of his own songs on a demonstra- 
tion record. 

George Hamilton IV and Johnny 
Dee were the lanky boy -wonders at 

Eddie Dano (with MCA's Danny 
Welk) was RCA Victor office worker. 




a small TV station when Johnny 
wrote "A Rose and a Baby Ruth" 
and George put it on wax at a small 
studio. 

The story multiplies and can well 
multiply further. For this is the 
year when the boy next door went 
to town, often in a pastel Cadillac 
. . . when touring rock 'n' roll and 
country-and-Western shows origi- 
nated more hits than Broadway. 

Scott Engel is RKO- Unique star at 
13. He and mother hail from Denver. 




Not long ago, when Tin Pan 
Alley was a closed corporation, 
these kids from the sticks wouldn't 
even have won a listen from the 
least important of artists -and-rep- 
ertoire men. Now, the teen-age 
audience is calling the turn. Thanks 
to the music -business revolution 
which began with Bill Haley's rock 
'n' roll, which hit a financial peak 
with Presley, and which found new 

Bill Carey sings for Savoy, hopes 
for a hit like roommate Jim Lowe's. 




New Hot Singers of 1957 




Teachers irked Eddie Cochran — but 
out in Hollywood he works hard with 
arranger and songwriter Ray Stanley. 




Johnny Mathis (with Joan Wright) 
studied seriously, is star athlete at 
high jump and records for Columbia. 



48 





Eddie did "Twenty Flight Rock" for Liberty, was then paged for movie role. 



nQ£ 



fire with the sudden nationwide 
success of Tommy Sands, the lads 
with a fresh lyric and a new sound 
are much in demand. An execu- 
tive at one large recording com- 
pany, which had long concentrated 
only on top stars, defined his studio's 
change in policy: "The kids can by- 
pass Broadway. We've got our 
scouts out, beating the bushes, 
looking for them." 

Broadway, too, went looking for 
grass-roots singers, and the name of 
Sonny James ("from Hackleburg, 
Alabama, ma'am") blazed in lights 
at the Palace. Sonny's Capitol re- 
lease of "Young Love" had already 
sold two million records and be- 
come one of the few country-and- 
Western tunes to break over into 
the pop field. 

With Sonny also introducing 
"First Date, First Kiss, First Love," 
there were as many sighs as shrieks 
from happy fans, for Sonny cut a 
romantic figure up there on that 
famed stage. His black hair curls 
crisply. The white suit which drapes 
his athletic six-foot frame enhances 
the smoky blue of his eyes and the 
brightness of his open smile. Being 
able to knot his black string tie into 



a precise bow without aid of a mir- 
ror is a point of pride with him. 
"That's how you tell a real Southern 
gentleman," says Sonny. 

He's been singing since he was 
knee-high to a hammer handle. 
"Mom, Pop, my sis and I were "The 
Loden Family.' Used to play radio 
stations and one-nighters." He 
still wears his Hackleburg high- 
school ring. "I started first grade 
there and I graduated there. But, 
in between, I went to seven differ- 
ent schools." 

For all their moving around, 
Sonny played baseball, basketball, 
football. "Pops just never would 
book a show on nights the team was 
playing," he explains. 

When his sister married and his 
parents retired to run a clothing 
store, he dropped his surname and 
billed himself as "Sonny James." 
Big D Jamboree in Dallas, and 
Ozark Jubilee on ABC-TV, built 
his audience. Ed Sullivan welcomed 
him and so did Bob Hope. Sonny 
had a fine time with Hope. "I went 
out to visit and had supper with the 
family. He sure has nice kids." 

"Nice" is a meaningful word to 
him. "I try to be a nice person and 







— ^J 



Rovin' Johnny Cash sings with a lot of "go" — and a lonely sound, too. His popularity 
justifies faith of Sun Records' Sam Phillips (white suit) and manager Bob Neal (right). 



to live nice." His religion is real, 
and he makes his contracts conform 
to his beliefs. He will not appear 
where liquor is served. "It wouldn't 
be right. My young fans couldn't 
go." 

While still a bachelor, Sonny 
hopes some day to build a house in 
Hackleburg. "Friends there have 
known me since I was just a little 
tyke. I like to visit and entertain 
and meet people, so I'll live where 
I'm home-folks, not a celebrity." 

He's applying the same common- 
sense rule to Hollywood offers. "It 
would be right nice to get a chance 
to make a picture, providing they 
let me play myself. That's all I'd 
be interested in doing — singling my 
own heart songs." 

Two home-made hit records were 
the flying discs which took Buddy 
Knox and Jimmy Bowen from Can- 
yon, Texas, to Broadway in one 
breathless jump. "We'd never even 
been on stage before we got to the 
Paramount," says Buddy. "And 
boy! was that a shock." 

It was also a shock to the New 
York police, for the boys were in 
the cast of the Alan Freed rock 'n' 
roll show which pulled more than 
5,000 teenagers into Times Square 
by eight A.M. of opening day. They 
jammed adjacent streets, crashed 
ticket-office windows and stamped 
out the rhythm until building in- 
spectors closed a theater balcony. 
"You could actually see it sway," 
says Jimmy. 

Center of a high-pressure part of 
this enthusiasm was a little four- 
man combo — Buddy, Jim, Dave All- 
dred, Don Lanier, playing under the 
improbable name of "The Rhythm 
Orchids" — which had already per- 
formed the improbable achievement 
of starting two home-made songs, 




"Moon" songs for Prep set a starry 
trail for Bob Roubian — who serves up 
real jam sessions at his restaurant. 



Buddy's "Party Doll" and Jimmy's 
"I'm Sticking With You," toward the 
hit charts. Phil Kahl heard them 
and signed the boys to a manage- 
ment contract, and Roulette Records 
bought their master for re-issue. 
The kids of America did the rest. 

Six feet tall, dark -haired and 
hazel-eyed, Jimmy Bowen was born 
in Animas, New Mexico, in 1937. 
His father, Asa Bowen, then a labor 
organizer, later became chief of 
police at Dumas, Texas — pop. 7,000. 
Jim darned near bursts with pride 
when he speaks of his father. Don 
Lanier, his home-town neighbor, 
supplies the details: "The Chief has 
been great with the kids, setting up 
the youth center and things like 




At 19, George Hamilton IV is a 
living skyrocket and ABC-Paramount 
thinks he's just started on way up. 



that. Since he became chief in 1946, 
not a single boy from Dumas has 
been sent to reform school." 

Jim's grandfather taught him to 
play the uke, but when Don, whose 
father works for the Natural Gas 
Pipe Line Co., won a guitar in a 
drawing, Jim started yearning: "I 
had to make just as much noise as 
Don did." Later, he learned to play 
bass and he wishes he had done 
more with piano. "The only time I 
ever tried to put one over on Dad 
was when he paid for lessons and 
I sneaked away to football practice. 
I think now he suspected and sym- 
pathized, because he's great for 
sports himself. But I sure could 
use now the (Continued on page 85) 



49 




Eve can be happy as a 
queen, says Ida Lupino— 
who finds it pays to let 
husband Howard Duff 
be "the boss" at home 



By FREDDA BALLING 



IN these days of taxes, tensions 
and Miltowns, many a man is 
ready to blow his stack at any 
moment . . . but psychiatrists 
point out that a good wife has 
saved the sanity of many a hus- 
band. The more volatile and 
talented the man, the greater his 
danger . . . and in Hollywood, 
where daily pressures set a new 
high, a good wife really has to 
dedicate herself to being a help- 
meet in the fullest sense of the 
word. 

Hollywood wife Ida Lupino is 
regarded by friends and fellow 
workers as one of the most suc- 
cessful keepers-of-the-even-keel 
in the entertainment industry. 
She is almost literally a blue- 
eyed, honey-blond "domestic sta- 
bilizer." It's not an accidental, 
incidental talent. Ida has a guid- 
ing theory which other wives, in 
other areas, have — or can— put 
into practice with equal success. 

It would be pleasant to an- 
nounce that her recipe is an easy 
one to follow, but the sobering 
truth is that nothing which is 
completely successful in practice 
•is completely easy — even if the 
principle can be stated simply, 
like this: Let the king be king. 
Let each (Continued on page 68) 

Ida and Howard star in Mr. Adams And 
Eve, seen on CBS-TV, Fri., at 9 P.M. 
EDT, as sponsored alternately by Camel 
Cigarettes and Colgate-Palmolive Co. 









Where Adam is KING... 



50 



ft 



' 



* 



i. *ajua*uuAAio aj<t*aj tlJ JU« 



<€»*i 



*bi 






mSWMM M^^K 






•.>:.-■■ 



(OB* 



a 



; ;■ 1 




Exactly to Howard's specifications, home is a perfect setting for him, Ida, Bridget, 
'Tuesday" — -and the famed candlesticks which they tote to the studio daily for TV use! 



m 
i i 



rfiMV -■' . 



Sometimes Ida wins a point, too — she got Howard to take up 
art again. Her own. hobby is composing — music and words. 



Bridget loves bedtime! Ida invents tales of "The Fleep" 
(which Howard is now illustrating for a book they plan). 



•'VVV:--' '■ 




BE A 




WARM - 





Arlene and her husband, Martin Gabel, know that 
planning ahead means they can enjoy party, too. 



Their summer home accommodates four overnight guests 
— plus many others invited to parties during weekend. 



Take these tips from Arlene Francis 

— and hospitality's your line, 

for weekend guests in your own home 

By FRANCES KISH 

Being a successful summer hostess should 
be fun, according to Arlene Francis. 
Dependent on three basic things: 
Organization, preparation, relaxation. In other 
words, simply planning ahead, getting as 
much done beforehand as possible, and 
enjoying everything so much yourself that it 
spills over to your guests. 

Arlene is hostess and editor of Home on 
NBC -TV, permanent panelist on WJiat's My 
Line? on CBS-TV, wife of producer-actor 
Martin Gabel, mother of a ten-year-old son, 
Peter, hostess and {Continued on page 70) 

Arlene is editor-in-chief of Home, as seen on NBC-TV. 
M-F, 10 to 11 A.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship. 
She is also a regular panelist on What's Mv Line?, as 
seen on CBS-TV, Sun., 10:30 P.M. EDT, under the alter- 
nate sponsorship of Remington Rand and Helene Curtis. 




While Arlene plays hostess to such honored grownups as 
her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Aram Kazanjian, son Peter 
takes over the entertainment of such youthful guests as 
his friend Jonathan (right), the son of Bennett Cerf. 



52 







Let 'er roll! A bus loaded with 
talented singers and musicians on 
the road for country-music tour. 



Work goes on en route. Here, show 
manager Bill Denny of Nashville is 
busy typing up his daily report. 



Two of the talented Tunesmiths' 
group, Sonny Curtis and Bun Wilson, 
catch a spot of shut-eye on the way. 




Known as the "Golden Hillbilly," 
Goldie Hill is first to check in 
at motel, while bus is unloaded. 



The music is fast, the costumes are 
fancy. Red Sovine (with back to 
camera) and Slim Sutberry dress. 



In makeshift dressing room at local 
school, Mimi Roman and Goldie Hill 
hurry^ into costumes for the show. 




Meanwhile, out front, Tunesmiths 
set up instruments in the school 
auditorium where show goes on. 



Fascinated early arrival is bare- 
foot boy, determined not to miss 
even one minute of the excitement. 



He's soon joined by a crowd of 
excited country-music enthusiasts, 
hanging over the footlights to watch. 



55 




Johnny, the famous Philip Morris 
bellhop, steps before the mike 
to "Call for Philip Morris" and 
open the show. The touring, free 
Country Music Show has played 
to capacity audiences everywhere. 



Country and Western is here 
to stay — in the towns and 
cities of the South where it 
was born, and in the hearts of 
the much larger audience it is 
earning every day. Below are 
ten of the Philip Morris gang 
who all sing out strong for you. 




Biff Collie acts as master of ceremonies, keeps the musical high-jinks mov- 
ing at fast clip. Biff is renowned as Houston country-and-Western deejay. 




Slim Sutberry 



Mimi Roman 



Ronnie Self 



Carl Smith 



m^ 














w 






*' 




Best foot forward! Mimi Roman dances, plays, sings — and is also a crack rider. For her skill in horseman- 
ship, Mimi was voted Queen of the Rodeo in 1954, when she appeared at Madison Square Garden, New York. 




Classroom "backstage." Soldie, Mimi, 
Carl Smith relax during show breaks. 



Sonny Curtis 



Sammy Pruett 



After show, Carl Smith, who travels 
in own car, packs elaborate costumes. 

Goldie Hill 



Rest of troupe board touring bus for 
overnight hop to next engagement. 



Bun Wilson 



Johnny Sibert 





Iujo Hands Full of Lauqhter 



By EUNICE FIELD 




Each time they move, the hands of ZaSu Pitts weave 
a spell of magic, and thousands of new fans are 
drawn toward her in a net of admiration and affec- 
tion. They are the most famous hands in show business. 
For over forty years, they have kept her name glowing 
on marquees throughout the world, as a star of stage and 
screen, and, more recently, they have won her added 
acclaim on television. In her early dramatic roles, they 
were called "the hands with a heart." Not long ago, a 



columnist, watching her play "Nugey" Nugent, the 
comedy foil to Gale Storm in the TV series, Oh! Susan- 
na, remarked: "She has a laugh in every finger. . . ." 
In spite of the popular notion, these hands ordinarily 
do not flutter. Very little about ZaSu "flutters." In per- 
son, she is rather serene, vaguely wise and vaguely 
humorous, and both she and her hands are surprisingly 
firm and energetic. She thinks of herself as competent, 
and her friends and family (Continued on page 74) 



ZaSu is "Nugey" in The Gale Storm Show, Oh! Susanna, CBS-TV, Sat., 9 P.M. EDT, sponsored alternately by Nescafe and Helene Curtis. 



58 



Fingers made her famous — and funny, long before 

TV and Oh ! Susanna, but the heart that guides them 

is what makes ZaSu Pitts memorable — and dear 



I ^V^ 7 -''/" ,«: 





ZaSu's hands — "a laugh in every finger" 
— are in motion as grandsons John and 
Ralph meet Roy Roberts, who plays the 
cruise commander. Below, daughter Ann 
Reynolds hardly looks old enough to re- 
member when a movie of her mother's 
left her simply screaming— with fear! 



With three sons and a baby girl for Gale 
Storm and two grandsons — Ralph and John 
Reynolds, aged 5 and 3 — for ZaSu, it's no 
wondertheytaketurns "mothering" each other 
aboard the set of Ohl Susanna. Like part of 
the family, too, is Mrs. Hal Roach, Sr., be- 
low, wife of the veteran movie producer. 





59 




Kathryn Murray's animated face is 
rarely seen in so quiet a pose as this. 



Tiny Mrs. Arthur Murray 
has "grown" into a big 
"little lady" and learned 
how real beauty is created 

By HARRIET SEGMAN 



Mrs. Murray leads dancing teachers in 
ankle-rotations, to keep feet flexible. 





Teaching two teachers to teach, Mrs. Murray shows 
how to step back — lead with the toes in a straight line. 



I'd hate to live my childhood over," said the 
slim, sparkling-eyed lady. "I was a sallow, 
tiny, dark-haired child — always the smallest, 
always the homeliest." Strange to hear this from 
the charming television star with a world-wide 
empire of 450 dancing studios. Clearly, a great 
deal of "blossoming out" has happened to Mrs. 
Arthur Murray since those early days. Actually, 
Kathryn Murray made the changes happen. "I 
determined to stop being background," she says. 
Today, an artist on the ballroom floor, she 
moves through the rest of her life also in a 
lilting manner. She walks so buoyantly, her 
whole body seems to (Continued on page 65) 



fid 



(Continued jrom page 37) 
Roger's a lot better. Mike, I'm wonder- 
fully lucky! When Mary was going to 
have little Billy, Roger was in the vet- 
erans' hospital with a heart attack, and 
she expected any minute to hear he'd 
simply stopped living! Instead of being 
useless and happy, like me. . . ." She bit 
again into the pear and nodded at it. 
"This is perfect! But the doctor says Roger 
is really coming along. If he takes things 
easy, and doesn't get emotionally wrought 
up, he may live as long as anybody else. 
Isn't that wonderful? Roger said he's been 
counting up to ten ten times when he 
feels he's getting angry. He asked the 
doctor if he could cut down to nine!" 

Mike had more reason to be happy 
than most, and more reason than he knew. 
At that very instant, for example, Mary 
Harper had reason to feel less than bliss- 
ful. She'd visited Sara during the after- 
noon. It was an honest visit. She was very 
fond of Sara and of Mike. But the visit 
to Sara also was a cover-up for being 
out, while she went to another place— 
a nursing home — and very politely paid 
a not-small, not-excessive sum of money 
to one Clayton Pike. He and his wife ran 
the nursing home, and he'd been collect- 
ing that money from Mary for a good many 
years. His wife pretended to know noth- 
ing about it, but she'd arranged it all. 

Mary paid the blackmail auite com- 
posedly. There was no use getting upset. 
Her husband Roger was coming along 
nicely now, but he had to be shielded 
from things that might cause violent emo- 
tion. He tried hard, but his temperament 
was hardly calm. And he had to be calm. 
So Mary paid blackmail. If he ever found 
out why, she'd be a widow and little 
Billy would be worse than fatherless. 

When Mary left the office of the nursing 
home, however, the subject came up im- 
mediately. Clayton Pike closed the door 
behind her. He crossed the office and 
opened another door. "That was Mary 
Harper," he said. "You were listening . . ." 

The girl behind the open door smiled 
blandly. "Naturally!" She entered the 
office, lithe and consciously attractive, 
even with Clayton Pike as the only man 
around — and he was not a prize. But 
though she looked at him steadily enough, 
her eyes were restless. "She adopted this 
brat you tell me about — the brat I'm to 
weep over and claim is my own. Let me 
see your file again." 

Clayton Pike produced a file envelope 
from a desk drawer. He took other en- 
velopes out of it, large and small, some 
of official size and some quite small. 
The girl inspected them with a singular 
cold detachment, as if already familiar 
with them but looking for flaws in what 
they said. She looked up. "The really 
important one isn't here." 

Pike brought out a new, larger en- 
velope with a British stamp on it. He 
handed it over. The girl read its contents. 
It was not like an American business 
letter. It used the stately phrasing of 
someone who would call himself a solic- 
itor instead of a lawyer. It was addressed 
to a Mrs. Bayard Smythe. The firm of 
solicitors informed her that a reversion 
in interest having matured in favor of her 
late husband, it was their duty to in- 
quire if Mr. Smythe had left issue — 
children. If so, a very considerable sum 
awaited them. If there had been children, 
now deceased, the sum would be due to 
Mrs. Smythe. They were addressing her 
at her last known address, and they re- 
mained her most obedient servants. . . . 

"How much?" she said crisply. He told 



The Edge Of Night 

her. He'd checked on the whole matter, 
privately. 

"You've seen Mary Harper," said Pike 
exuberantly. "You know you can handle 
her! You see what I've got — marriage 
certificate, letters, even a snapshot of the 
boy's father and when and where he died. 
You're Mrs. Smythe. With the boy — 
everything regular, there! — you're a rich 
woman. And I'm a rich man! Smart?" 

"I'd guess," said the girl acidly, "that 
you were lucky. How'd you happen to be 
set up for a break like this?" 

"The woman died here," he said zest- 
fully. "And, in this business, sometimes a 
ready-made new identity can be sold for 
a nice price. So I kept her papers and 
trinkets. She had no friends. Nobody even 
to claim her body for burial! So I simply 
changed the records here from Smythe to 
Jones, and I could supply an inquirer with 
a name and a past and a marriage cer- 
tificate and a conveniently dead husband 
on request. As it turns out, I can even 
supply the heir these Englishmen are so 
anxious to find!" 

1 he girl smiled without mirth. "But it's 
going to be tricky. Children know I don't 
like them, usually. The boy won't be 
pleased. And you explained that this 
Mary Harper wanted the baby so her hus- 
band wouldn't die of a heart stoppage 
when he learned he wasn't a father any 
more. You say he's still not too healthy. 
And I'm here to take the boy away. May- 
be she likes the brat. Certainly she's been 
paying to keep her husband from finding 
out he isn't the father he believes. When 
we demand the boy back, she's going to 
be desperate! And a desperate woman — " 

Clayton Pike had an answer for that. 
Mary Harper would know she had no 
case. She'd never adopted the boy legally. 
She'd lived a lie. She wouldn't dare 
fight. . . . 

The girl who was to impersonate a 
child's dead mother looked at him with 
unenchanted eyes. Her name was really 
Irene Egan, and there was not much that 
enchanted her. She'd had a strange life, 
that Mary Harper couldn't imagine. 
There'd been trouble over men in her 
life. There'd been thefts that didn't get 
her what she wanted. She was hard and 
selfish. Honesty was a weakness to her. 

"When do we start?" she asked coldly. 

And he did put things in motion at noon 
next day, with a phone call to Mary Har- 
per. His manner was agitated. He said 
that something very upsetting had hap- 
pened. He begged Mrs. Harper to come 
immediately to the nursing home. It was 
of the utmost importance. It was a matter 
of life or death. 

She couldn't imagine what had hap- 
pened. Roger was improving, and Billy 
was thriving, nowadays. She did not look 
for better fortune than only to have her 
husband and her son — he was her son, 
now, by every tie but that of being born 
to her — and she couldn't see any motive 
that could move even Clayton Pike to 
harm her. Anything he did would lose 
him the money he'd been collecting for 
so long. . . . 

Mike was deep in the paper work that 
is so great a part of an organized investi- 
gation. When Willy came in, Mike looked 
up and then turned. Willy looked pleased. 
"I checked out the case I told you about 
yesterday," he said with the crustiness 
with which he expressed pleasure. "It's 
all right." 

Mike put down his papers, to give full 
attention. 

"I won't tell you the name," said Willy, 
with dignity. "But there was a woman 



who had a baby. Her husband was ill, 
and he'd set his heart on having a son. 
He got it. It was a tonic to him, when he 
heard his son was born. What would hap- 
pen if the baby died? You figure what 
his wife thought. The kid did die, only 
two weeks old. But his wife couldn't let 
him know. He'd die, too! So she got an- 
other baby. That's all. No case for the 
office here. And," he said proudly, "no- 
body knows that story but me and the 
woman. I got it in scraps and pieces here 
and there. It fits. It's right." 

"Where'd she get the baby?" asked 
Mike. 

"That fits, too. Baby born right in 
town here, a day before the other. . Two 
weeks later, his mother died. A mother 
without a baby, and a baby without a 
mother. Hold on!" Willy held up his 
hand. "The baby's mother hadn't a friend 
in the world. No one even claimed her 
body. The city buried her. It's all in 
the records down at the City Hall. I don't 
know what records say anywhere else, but 
there they're right! Is there any reason 
to go into that? 

"Besides," said Willy crossly, "the kid 
plays a good game of baseball, for a kid. 
He might make the big leagues some day. 
It'd be a dirty trick to take away the name 
he's got, and make him go back to the 
one he was born with. Can you imagine 
a big-league player named Smythe? 
S-m-y-t-h-e? It's ridiculous!" 

Mike shrugged. Mike was incorrupti- 
ble. There are some things an Assistant 
District Attorney can legitimately fail to 
inauire into. "I never heard a word," said 
Mike, drily. "You never mentioned it. 
If I'm an accessory. . . ." 

"Don't tell your wife," Willy added. 
"Women try to guess things out." 

"She'd take your word, anyhow," said 
Mike. "She wouldn't believe you'd do 
anything wrong. Those pears you got 
her just hit the spot!" 

Wilhelmus Bogart Bryan III stood up 
with an air of indifference. "Women'd 
get along better," he said crustily, "if they 
just listened to the District Attorney's 
office. Your wife, now — she wanted pears 
and I knew where to find 'em. A lot of 
women with lot worse troubles would be 
better off if they just came here!" . . . 

Mike could hardly guess, then, how good 
an idea that might have been for Mary 
Harper. At that very moment, she stood, 
ashen-faced, confronting the girl who 
said she was Billy's mother. 

"I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Harper," said 
Irene Egan coldly, "but I want my baby! 
I was desperate when I let him go. I 
thought it was best for him. If Mr. Pike 
let you think I had died, that is not my 
affair. I'm alive. I want my baby! I 
can do more for him now than you can, 
since he's come into his inheritance. And, 
Mrs. Harper, I'm going to have my baby!" 

Mary Harper said in an anguished whis- 
per: "We — love him. And — if he goes 
away, Roger's heart will stop. . . ." Her 
voice faltered into silence. 

It did not seem that the District Attor- 
ney's office could help her then. Mike 
would want to, of course. But — if Roger 
heard of such an attempt to take Billy 
away, even though it was defeated. . . . 

Mary Harper clenched her hands. She 
felt herself growing more and more des- 
perate as the cruelty of the trap became 
more clear. A trap which must inexo- 
rably close upon those she held most J 
dear . . . her son — he was her son! . . . her 
husband . . . and even those good friends 
from whom she had withheld her lonely 
secret. ... 

61 



EVERY DAY IS 
LADIES DAY 

The better half of Don Stone's audience 
at KSCJ is the fairer half 




Famed skating star Sonja Henie visits Don during Starlight 
Room Party broadcast. Listeners take turns guesting, too. 



62 




Don's and Jean's homemade ice cream may spoil baby 
Deanna's dinner, but big sister Donna guesses it won't. 




"Gathering moss" in Sioux City, a busy and versatile 
young radio man waited till the networks came to him. 



To Sioux City listeners, it seemed but a "stone's 
throw" from Station KSCJ news, music and 
talk to more of the same on network. But, the Stone 
in question "gathered moss" instead — waiting for a 
network chance that would enable him, at the 
same time, to stay put in Sioux City. He got it, finally, 
when he subbed for Breakfast Club's Don 
McNeill. . . . Don Stone of KSCJ has etched his 
personality into the area's listening habits with the 
brightness and durability of a diamond. Starlight 
Room Party, heard Monday through Friday at 3:30 
P.M., is a popular audience-participation half hour. 
Shopper's Matinee, heard for the last eleven years, 
from 4 to 5 P.M. each weekday, caters to a full circle 
of musical tastes. Don handles both ayem and noon 
newscasts and special sports events. Frequently viewed 
on KTrV-TV, Don has plenty of behind-the-scenes 
work as new TV Program Director. . . . An Iowan all 
his life, Don was born in Whiting, went to school in 
Sergeant Bluff and college at Morningside in Sioux 
City. Since then, his outstanding contributions to 
good causes have brought him high recognition — and, 
at times, adventure of a sort. Once, in order to raise 
funds for the United Campaign, he allowed himself 
to be thrown into jail on trumped-up charges, so 
that listeners would "bail him out" with Red 
Feather pledges. The $1300 the charities collected 
was fine but, Don recalls, "Even if you're there 
voluntarily, those bars just don't look right." Another 
"award" took the popular ladies' hour programmer 
quite by surprise. In 1953, the Sioux City Journal 
nominated him "Honorary Woman of Achievement." 
At home, it's a pleasantly feminine society, too. 
Don's wife Jean is devoted to homemaking and to 
their two daughters — Donna Jean, 3, and Deanna 
Lynn, going on one. Lately, little Donna has 
solved the coincidence of Daddy's morning tran- 
scriptions with his breakfast "presence." More 
fortunate than most, she reasons, "I have two 
daddies — one at home and one on the radio.". . . Out 
for an evening of relaxation, Don plays bridge, 
but not "for blood." He prefers "Dingstadt" — an 
"obscure Swedish expert" — to the Culbertson or 
Goren methods. "More 'obscure' than 'expert,' ' 
twinkles Don, "Dingstadt is really a 'master' of my 
own invention. I quote him, and you'd be surprised 
how many stuffed shirts nod wisely and say, 'Oh, yes 
of course, Dingstadt!' "... Spoofing aside, Don 
regards the letters and calls of congratulations on 
the Breakfast Club break "the most rewarding 
experience in a lifetime of big moments." Don's 
followers maintain his "biggest moments" lie ahead 
— really just a Stone's throw. 










B 



m 



.^ 



The Boones Go to Hollywood 



(Continued from page 42) 
most thrilling time Pat and I have spent 
since we were married. We've had a lot 
of exciting things happen to us, but never 
so much in so little time. 

Pat, of course, came to Hollywood to 
appear in "Bernardine," being filmed on 
the 20th Century-Fox lot. He was due 
out here early in February, and we de- 
cided it would be a good time to escape 
the East Coast slush-and-snow routine 
and have a family holiday in the sun in 
California. As it turned out, it was a 
fairly hectic way to have a holiday — and 
the two months we had originally planned 
to spend out here have stretched to six. 
But I'd not have missed it for the world. 

We were quite a party, taking off from 
New York. There were Pat and myself, 
our three little girls — Cherry, Lindy and 
Debby — and our Eva, who is practically 
one of the family. (She's taken care of 
me since I was a little girl, and now she's 
helping me take care of our little girls.) 

.Landing at International Airport in Los 
Angeles was certainly a suitable intro- 
duction to the chaos which was to fol- 
low for the next two months. It was sort 
of like diving off the high board. We just 
stepped out the door of that plane, and 
were almost literally "in over our 
heads" — surrounded by friends and fam- 
ily and fans. 

Because, you see, we have more family 
and friends in the Los Angeles area than 
we have anywhere else, except possibly 
in Nashville! Someone wrote somewhere 
that I'd said I dreaded the trip to Los 
Angeles because I was afraid we wouldn't 
find as many friends there as we had in 
Leonia, New Jersey, where we live most 
of the time. But that wasn't true at all. 
In Leonia — outside of the Carletons, the 
Desederios and the Youngs, who live in 
our neighborhood, and Carmel Quinn, 
who fives a few blocks away — we have 
very few intimate acquaintances. 

But in the Hollywood area — that's some- 
thing else again! My Grandmother Over- 
stake lives out in Inglewood, and my sister 
Jenny lives with Grammy. My Uncle 
Dick fives in Mafibu. And I have three 
aunts out here. One aunt is only nine- 
teen days older than I am, and had her 
third child in April. The whole gang of 
us is young — my grandmother is only 
fifty-nine. We have lots of fun together, 
so, naturally, I was looking forward to 
seeing them as much as I was to seeing 
California. 

We have a lot of friends who have moved 
to California, too, so that reception at 
the airport was sort of like "old home 
week" — everybody was there to greet us. 
Including about three thousand fans, I 
think. People in the Los Angeles area 
seem to be a lot more celebrity-conscious 
than the folks back in New York. Pat 
and I could go most anywhere in New 
York, and very few people would even 
turn to look at us. But we soon found 
out we couldn't go anywhere in Holly- 
wood without being stopped for auto- 
graphs or pleasant words from fans. 

But I still haven't left the airport, have 
I? We landed about four-thirty on a 
Friday afternoon. But, by the time we'd 
piled the luggage into a station wagon 
and sent it off (traveling with three little 
girls, we'd brought enough equipment 
along to outfit an African safari), and 
climbed into the limousine the studio had 
sent for us, it must have been past five- 
thirty. It was after six when we arrived 
at Del Capri, the apartment hotel in 
Westwood where we'd reserved two ad- 
joining three-room suites. There were 



photographers trailing us all the way, and 
meeting us at the apartment. 

The children were really tired — it may 
have been six o'clock Los Angeles time, 
but they were still operating on Eastern 
time, and it was nine by their "clocks." 
And they'd been up since before six that 
morning. I wasn't exactly fresh as a daisy 
myself, so I was pretty horrified when I 
heard that we were invited to go out to 
a welcoming dinner party at Romanoff's, 
as soon as we could change. Our host 
was to be Randy Wood, president of Dot 
Records. If I hadn't known what an un- 
derstanding fellow he is, I'd probably have 
forced myself, and gone to dinner. But I 
was too near exhaustion, so I begged off, 
and Pat went on to the dinner party alone. 

In a way, I was glad. It gave me a 
chance to get calmed down, get the chil- 
dren settled, and do a little unpacking. 
I'd probably have been ill if I'd gone 
out — I was that weary. But, when Pat 
came home and told me Frank Sinatra 
had been there, and I realized I'd missed 
the chance to meet him, I almost doubted 
the wisdom of my decision. We got to 
meet him later, though. 

Oh, yes — one thing I almost forgot! As 
I mentioned, we had figured that Febru- 
ary would be a wonderful time to get out 
to California, since some of the winter's 
worst weather often hits the East Coast 
during February and March. So what 
happens? We land in Los Angeles during 
the week when they've had their first 
snowfall in years! As a gag, someone 
had dreamed up a huge cardboard snow- 
man and planted it on the lawn at the 
apartment building, with a "Welcome, Pat 
Boone" sign in its hand. For a few short 
minutes, we had doubts about the cele- 
brated California climate, I'll admit. But 
the snow and the cold were truly "un- 
usual." In a few days, we were soaking 
up sun and warmth — 80 degrees of it. 

1 he day after we arrived, Saturday, 
Pat had a recording date at the Dot Record 
studios. That gave me a chance to get 
unpacked. Eva and I explored the neigh- 
borhood a little, found the handiest super- 
market and laundry — that sort of thing. 

Sunday, we went to church in near-by 
Santa Monica, and that evening Pat was 
scheduled to appear at a Youth Rally at 
Pepperdine College. Late that afternoon, 
we stopped off briefly at a party Hedda 
Hopper was giving for Merle Oberon and 
her fiance — the invitation had been handed 
to us just as we got off the plane Friday. 

I'm afraid we sort of took Miss Hopper 
by surprise. When she came over and 
asked us what she could get us to drink, 
we requested either fruit juice or soda 
pop, and I guess Miss Hopper doesn't get 
many such requests from her guests. But, 
nevertheless, she complimented us on our 
stand as teetotallers. 

The next evening, I got a chance to 
cash in my "rain check" on that dinner at 
Romanoff's which I'd missed Saturday 
evening. We took Louella Parsons to din- 
ner there, and later we went back to her 
home and sat around the living room 
listening to records. 

A few evenings later, we went to the 
Photoplay Awards dinner. I'll confess I 
was in a bit of a state, wondering what 
to wear to this one — after all, I'd never 
been to a big Hollywood party before, 
and hadn't the fuzziest notion whether 
one went in a long formal or a short one. 
I'd brought both along, and, on the advice 
of a friend, I wore a short formal and a 
faille evening coat, with a tulle stole sort 
of draped over my head. I needn't have 
worried — only the big stars who were to 



be in the limelight were in ball gowns. 

This is one of the gala events of the 
year in Hollywood, and there were so 
many fabulous people there that I could 
hardly eat my dinner for checking up on 
who was sitting where. The evening's 
biggest thrill was having some of these 
people come to our table and ask Pat for 
his autograph! Alan Ladd wanted Pat's 
autograph for his teenagers at home, and 
so did Doris Day and Kirk Douglas. Here 
I'd been bug-eyed about seeing these 
stars, and they were giving us the celeb- 
rity treatment! 

The place was crawling with big names 
— Ginger Rogers and Jacques Bergerac, 
Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds (we 
knew them already, having met them 
back East), Rock Hudson, Jane Russell — 
dozens of them. And, of course, as Pat 
said, "Probably the most important peo- 
ple here are the ones whose faces we 
don't recognize!" The studio executives, 
producers, directors — the big wheels. 

I suppose a lot of people out in Holly- 
wood wonder why I was so impressed 
with celebrities. After all, as everybody 
probably knows by now, my dad is Red 
Foley, who used to have the Grand Ole 
Opry program on radio out of Nashville, 
and now has Ozark Jubilee on ABC-TV 
and The Red Foley Show on ABC Radio, 
from Springfield, Missouri. For years, 
Dad's programs have been practically a 
national institution, and he's always had 
big-name guest stars. So folks figure I 
should be accustomed to rubbing elbows 
with famous people. 

But that isn't true at all. Actually, I 
rarely ever met any of the celebrities who 
appeared on Dad's shows. And, even if 
Red Foley was a household name all 
over the country, he was just "Dad" to me. 

Another thing people out there were al- 
ways asking me: "How does it feel to be 
married to a man all the girls in the 
country are drooling over?" So far, I can 
honestly say it hasn't fazed me. (It only 
confirms what I've known for years — the 
kind of a fellow Pat is, I mean.) 

I suppose being able to keep a little 
detached, this way, is something I did 
pick up from growing up as Red Foley's 
daughter. He was always such an idol to 
his fans and I remember, after Mother 
died, he got ever so many letters of pro- 
posal. The women who wrote those letters 
were completely convinced they would 
make him wonderful wives, and could 
mother us children. 

So far, Pat hasn't had any letters of 
proposal. But I think the audiences Dad 
reached, and the ones interested in Pat, 
are quite different. Dad's followers, who 
love country-and-Western music, are very 
down to earth, and apt to be more direct 
and forward. Pat's fans love pop music 
and, though they're interested in his per- 
sonal life, I truly don't think they identify 
themselves with it in any way. 

One of the big thrills for me, out in 
Hollywood, was going with Pat every 
day to watch the "rushes" of the scenes 
they'd been shooting. Since I'd never 
even been through the main gate of a 
Hollywood movie studio before, naturally, 
I got a boot out of being in on this part of 
picture -making. I guess the folks around 
the studio must have thought we were a 
couple of characters, the way we worked 
things out! 

Late every afternoon, Pat would call 
me as soon as the last scene had been shot, J 
and tell me about what time they'd start 
running off the "rushes." I'd hop into the R 
station wagon and tear off for the Fox 
lot. I'd drive right to his dressing room, 

63 



and he'd be waiting outside in his white 
Corvette. As soon as he saw me driving 
up, he'd signal me with a wave, and give 
the Corvette the gun. Off he'd streak across 
the lot, with me in the station wagon right 
behind him. 

You see, they never knew until the very 
last minute iust where the "rushes" would 
be screened, and there are projection 
rooms dotted all over the lot. This was 
the only way we could figure out for him 
to let me know which projection room to 
go to. There wasn't even time for him to 
slide in behind the wheel of the station 
wagon. As it was, we'd always get to the 
door just as the lights dimmed and the 
screening started. 

Of course, Pat was busy all day long, 
five days a week. Weekends were often 
taken up with personal appearances for 
special award dinners, charity drives, that 
sort of thing. And I know lots of people 
thought I was probably getting pretty 
bored, sitting around all day in that 
furnished apartment, waiting for Pat to 
come home from the studio. 

But anyone who has three small chil- 
dren will understand why it was I never 
had time to get bored. Particularly since 
we were living in an apartment building. 
The girls were used to a yard, and a place 
where they could run. There wasn't much 
yard at Del Capri, although there was a 
nice swimming pool. But a swimming 
pool and toddlers can be a harrowing com- 
bination, so generally, we took the girls to 
a playground, or a park, or the zoo, every 
morning. We'd have our lunch at a drive- 
in, which the girls adored. And, before 
we knew it, it would be time to go back to 
the apartment for their naps. While they 
were sleeping, Eva and I would catch up 
on little household chores — laundry and 
that sort of thing. Then, in no time at all, 
Pat would be calling from the studio, 
summoning me to those "rushes." The days 
went very fast. 

Also, I had the good luck to have a 
friend, Nancy Knutzen, living near by. 
Nancy's husband, Bob, is chief copy boy 
at the Los Angeles Examiner — they met 
a little over a year ago, when they both 
took an ocean trip on a freighter. I got in 
quite a few morning coffee sessions with 
Nancy. 

Ihere was another, considerably more 
elegant-type session Nancy and Bob 
shared with us. That was our first visit 
to the Cocoanut Grove. 

It all started one afternoon when Harry 
Belafonte dropped in on the "Bernardine" 
set at Fox, to ask for Pat's autograph for 
his daughter. While they were chatting, 
Pat mentioned that we'd wanted to catch 
Harry's show at the Cocoanut Grove, but 
had heard it was all sold out for his en- 
tire run. Harry volunteered to see what 
he could do to get us a table — and, sure 
enough, a few days later, we got the word 
that we had a reservation for a table for 
four that evening. So we took Nancy and 
Bob with us. 

And what a red-carpet treatment we 
got! We were ushered to a table smack- 
dab at ringside, and the waiters and the 
maitre de treated us like our names were 
Elizabeth and Philip, instead of Shirley 
and Pat. And the thing that really got me 
—the management picked up the check. 
A couple of years ago, when we thought 
wistfully that it would be nice if some 
kind, solvent individual would take us to 
a good place to eat, nobody did. But — 
now that we can manage to pay the check 
— somebody else does it! 
J The weekend we spent at Palm Springs 
was much like that evening at the Cocoa- 
nut Grove. We stayed at the Desert Inn, 
had the governor's suite, and people just 



64 



couldn't do enough for us. And, of course, 



everywhere we went, there were photog- 
raphers and fans tagging along behind. 

We spent several hours one morning at 
Harry Brand's home there in Palm Springs 
—he's head of the 20th Century-Fox stu- 
dio publicity department. I think that was 
the very best time of all. We just lounged 
in the sun and swam in the pool. But, 
for a couple of blissful hours, we were 
completely alone — just the family, with 
no outsiders around. This has become a 
luxury. 

Lying there in the sun at Palm Springs, 
being deliriously lazy even if only for a 
few hours, I couldn't help thinking how 
different this move of ours from New 
York to Hollywood was from the move 
we'd made from Nashville to New York. 
And that move was only two years ago. 

Pat was already in New York at that 
time, going to school, and Cherry and I 
had stayed behind in Nashville. Then, 
shortly before Lindy was due to be born, 
the doctor told me that — because of the 
Rh blood factor involved — there was a 
chance we might lose the baby. 

1 thought it over for quite a while, and 
decided I'd go to New York to have the 
baby. It meant inconvenience — I realized 
this. Pat was living in a small hotel off 
Times Square, and the quarters were 
hardly what you could call luxurious. But 
all I could think of was, if there was going 
to be any trouble, I wanted to be with 
Pat when it happened. Pat's mother under- 
stood, and volunteered to keep Cherry 
for us for a while. 

So I went to New York, and we lived 
(existed is a better word, I suppose) for 
several weeks in that miserable little hotel 
room. Then Pat had to go out to Chicago 
to keep a recording date. That would be 
the same weekend the baby was expected! 
Happily, Pat was able to finish his work 
in Chicago and fly back in time to be with 
me at the hospital. 

Everything went perfectly. Anyone who 
looks at Lindy nowadays is apt to howl 
at the idea that we ever had any fears 
for her health. It's almost indecent to 
look as healthy as that child does! 

While I was still in the hospital, Pat 
scouted around for more suitable living 
quarters for us. What he found was a 
two-bedroom, kitchenette apartment in 
Manhattan. As soon as I came home from 
the hospital with Lindy, Mother Boone 
came up from Nashville, bringing Cherry. 
Three adults and two babies in a three- 
room apartment! To say we were cramped 
would be the understatement of the year. 

It was then that we started looking for 
a house. Every spare minute we could 
sneak, we'd look for a place — something 
we could afford, close enough for Pat to 
commute to classes and the studio, and 
with a yard so the girls could play out- 
doors. We didn't have many of those 
spare minutes for house-hunting, so it 
was a lucky break for us when Carmel 
Quinn told Pat about some houses she 
knew of, which were being built near 
hers in Leonia, New Jersey. Sure enough, 
we found what we'd been looking for! 

The house wasn't finished when we 
bought it. In fact, things began happening 
so fast with Pat, and we got so busy, that 
—even though we moved in just before 
Christmas — it was the following Septem- 
ber before I got all the decorating com- 
pleted! 

No-o-o-o, I thought, as I lay there in 
the sun in Palm Springs — I'd never have 
dreamed, two years ago, that such fab- 
ulous things could be happening to us to- 
day. And everyone is so enthusiastic, so 
kind and complimentary, I'm almost be- 
coming convinced, myself, that this isn't 
just a temporary thing. Not that I have 
any doubts whatsoever about Pat's ability 



to maintain the place he's won in his fans' 
affections. It's just that we'd never figured 
on anything like this. 

They have big plans for Pat. Of course, 
he had his personal-appearance tour late 
last spring — he played Blinstrub's in Bos- 
ton, the Town Casino in Buffalo, the Latin 
Casino in Philadelphia, and eighteen con- 
certs in as many cities, strung across the 
country as far west as St. Louis and Oma- 
ha, and as far north as Toronto. Traveling 
with him on the junket were the Four 
Lads, the Fontane Sisters, comedian Gary 
Morton, and an orchestra especially as- 
sembled for the tour. 

Then, early in June, Pat started his 
second movie at Fox. We had originally 
planned to go back East in April. But, 
when this came up, we left the furnished 
apartment and hunted up a house to rent. 
We found a lovely place up in Coldwater 
Canyon — five bedrooms — and it was like 
living in a country club, after the cramped 
quarters of the apartment. We hired a 
cook. That way, Eva and I were free to 
spend most of our time with the little girls. 

Pat's second picture is a musical, a re- 
make of "Home in Indiana," only this 
time with a score by Sammy Fain and 
Paul Francis Webster. Shirley Jones is 
Pat's leading lady. 

In August, we'll be going back to Leonia. 
In September, Pat will re-enter Columbia 
University, to finish working for his de- 
gree. In October, he starts his new tele- 
vision program for Chevy on ABC -TV. So 
it will be a busy autumn for us. At the 
end of the coming semester, Pat will be 
graduated. (I don't care what critical 
success he's made with his singing — I 
know he's going to get the thrill of his 
lifetime when he's achieved that degree!) 

And they're already talking still more 
pictures. Maybe we'll move to California 
to stay. I think I'd like that, and I've heard 
Pat say he would. Once we were perma- 
nently settled in California, I imagine we 
could manage to live a fairly normal ex- 
istence — if anyone in Hollywood ever does. 

But things will never be quite the same 
again. Of that I'm sure. And I have the 
word of an expert to back me up. I got 
that word one evening when Pat and I 
went out to call on Bing Crosby. 

Bing has been an idol of ours for years, 
and my dad has always admired him a 
great deal. So I was especially thrilled 
when he sent word he'd like to have us 
drop in to see him. When he started talk- 
ing about my dad, of course I really loved 
him! He told us how he'd made a state- 
ment, quoted in the press about eight 
years ago, to the effect that Red Foley was 
the best all-around singer in the country. 
By that, he meant he thought Dad could 
sing country tunes, ballads, pop music — 
everything. And he went on to say that 
he still holds that opinion of Dad's ability. 

This made me feel warm toward him, 
naturally. And I got up courage enough 
to ask him a question. "How long do 
you think it will be, Mr. Crosby," I asked, 
"until this chaos calms down a little — 
until things sort of settle back to normal?" 

He looked at me and grinned that won- 
derful grin of his. "Do you mean, how 
long is it going to be before you get your 
husband back?" 

Pat tells me I blushed then — and I ad- 
mitted I had meant it just about the way 
Mr. Crosby put it. 

He thought for a moment, looking off 
into space. Then he looked me straight in 
the eye, and the grin was gone, and I could 
tell he was dead serious. "Pat's only 
twenty-two — he's getting an earlier start 
than I did. I'd say, Shirley, that you can 
expect to get your husband back in about 
thirty years!" 

Well, maybe so. It's worth waiting for! 



The Lady Dances 

(Continued from, page 60) 




Kathryn Murray studies script for the 
Arthur Murray Party over NBC-TV. 



float. She credits this to proper foot 
placement — walking a straight line, with 
weight forward. A friend would call her 
winged walk part of her "reaching out" 
toward people. Even Kathryn Murray's 
face "dances." "To me, beauty is facial 
expression rather than features," she 
explains. "When I'm animated, I begin to 
look like myself. You may be dressed by 
Dior, but no one cares unless your face 
shows life and motion." Kathryn Mur- 
ray's husband, daughters and five grand- 
children fill her days to the brim. Besides 
doing TV, she prepares the Murray 
teaching manuals and the daily guides 
that go to studio managers. Twice a week 
she bakes, to fill the cookie tin in her 
husband's office. Her schedule allows only 
simple, speedy make-up. She does her 
own pedicures because the bending and 
stretching keeps her body agile. She needs 
only five or six hours of sleep — perhaps 
because she knows how to go "rag-doll" 
limp in a bus or car, with her feet up on 
a chair or suitcase whenever possible. 
Says Kathryn Murray: "I can't be 
bothered by caring for a large wardrobe, 
so I don't own a great many of anything. 
When I buy a new black dress, I get rid 
of the old. If I don't wear a pair of shoes 
for three months, out they go. I like air- 
spaces in my closet, and airiness in my 
whole household." Never wear anything 
brand new when you go out, she advises 
— except a bridal gown. She "breaks in" 
new clothes at home. "I don't go out with 
my clothes," says Kathryn Murray, "they 
go out with me. I want to rise above 
them." This lady has risen above more 
than clothes — she has risen above her 
"tininess," her shyness, her lack of con- 
ventional "glamour girl" beauty. Her eyes 
dance as she says, "A girl can become 
almost anything she wants to be." 



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65 



(Continued from page 29) 
in the best of TV dramatic shows. Just 
being herself on the panel quiz, To Tell 
The Truth, has earned her the affection of 
a few million more people. So a CBS 
executive with a high I.Q. signed Polly to 
a long-term contract, and it is a good bet 
that, by the end of the coming season, she 
may be TV's most "famous" newcomer. 

"It doesn't matter anymore. What I mean 
is that it doesn't matter in the same way 
it would have before," Polly explains. "A 
couple of years ago, a friend described me 
as a keg of dynamite with a short fuse. 
Then I was so anxious and nervous about 
wanting to succeed in my career. Now my 
career is my family." 

Since her marriage a year-and-a-half 
ago, Polly has turned down club dates, 
picture contracts, personal appearances, 
anything that would take her away from 
home. "Like the man," Polly laughs, "who 
was told that he couldn't take his money 
with him when he went to heaven and he 
replied, 'If I can't take it with me, I won't 
go.' It's the same with me. I've left New 
York just once, to do 'The Helen Morgan 
Story' from Hollywood — and the family 
went with me." 

Home for Polly is a ten-room apartment 
on Fifth Avenue just opposite Central 
Park. Polly herself has chosen all the 
beautiful furnishings, but she herself is the 
most decorative item. A dazzling dynamo, 
Polly stands five-five-and-a-half in bare 
feet and weighs in at one-nineteen. Her 
hair is dark brown, and her expressive 
eyes a deep, rustling blue. Others in the 
family picture are. husband Freddie, a 
handsome six-footer with a Doug Fair- 
banks mustache; his daughter Kathy, a 
bright, affectionate ten-year-old — and a 
menagerie which includes Buttons, a toy 
French poodle; Tinker Bell, a night-black 
cat; Filet, a full-size poodle; and an as- 
sortment of goldfish, turtles and birds. 

"As a kid there was never a chance to 
have a home," Polly says. "Dad was a con- 
struction engineer and we were always 
on the move, with me loaded in the back 
with the baggage. In one year, I was in 
ten different schools. Sometimes, we lived 
in cramped one-room apartments. Natural- 
ly, we couldn't carry furniture with us 
and so we had to do with what was fur- 
nished. I remember, when I was twelve, 
I had to sleep in a crib, because that's all 
there was for me." 

One of two daughters, Polly was born 
in Knoxville, Tennessee, on July 14, 1930. 
Her mother's maiden name was Lucy Law- 
horn. Her father is William Burgin. Polly 
changed the spelling to "Bergen" because 
no one ever spelled Burgin correctly when 
she launched her career at an early age. 
At fourteen, she had her own radio show, 
singing three times a week on Station 
WKBC in Richmond, Indiana. Actually, as 
her mother recalls, Polly was singing be- 
fore she was talking. Her voice showed so 
much promise that she was studying oper- 
atic music at the age of nine. 

"I got bored with formal lessons," she 
says. "I didn't want to practice scales. I 
was happy, just singing like my parents. 
Dad and Mother sang together — they still 
do. Friday and Saturday nights, you can 
be sure the guitar comes out and they 
blow up a country jig. Daddy and Mother 
are both hillbillies, born in Tennessee. 
Dad's a big man, stands six-five. He was 
once a boxer. I get my extraverted per- 

J sonality from him. I get my looks from 
Mother. They were young parents, and 

R they're only in their forties now. 

"We were very close," Polly continues. 
"They taught me their songs. They taught 

on 



The Truth About Polly 

me to play cards with them and, when they 
went visiting friends in the evening, I 
went along. I didn't make lasting friend- 
ships with other children. Oh, I did at first. 
But they were always broken up, after a 
month or so, when Dad moved. Well, you 
know how kids are. They protect them- 
selves against hurt. Rather than get buddy- 
buddy with another little girl, I just didn't 
allow myself close friends. My parents 
tried to make up for it. Mother used to 
play jacks with me by the hour. But, even 
so, I was very lonely at times." 

As a child, Polly learned the skills of a 
housekeeper. She is an excellent cook and 
can bake anything — including lemon me- 
ringue pie and angel food cake. "When I 
was twelve, both parents were working 
and I kept up the home and made many 
of the meals. And I took care of my sister 
Barbara. She was three then. Well, frank- 
ly, I didn't enjoy the cleaning chores — but 
I've always found the rest of it is fun." 

In her middle teens, the family moved 
West. She was sixteen when they settled 
in Compton, California, for four years. That 
was the longest time they'd ever stopped 
anywhere and so Polly thinks of Comp- 
ton as her home town. 

"It was then that I began to work at 
being a singer," she recalls. "I guess I 
was a kind of switch-singer many of those 
years. Sometimes I sang hillbilly, some- 
times pop. I was sixteen when I began to 
work in clubs, and I had to lie about my 
age. Mother came along to chaperone but 
since I was pretending to be twenty-one, 
she looked too young to be my mother and 
so she had to pose as my sister! After two 
years of that, I worked wholly in the 
pop field and began to sing with society 
bands." 

Some TV viewers, who know Polly as 
a panelist and actress, are unaware that 
she has one of the finest blues voices in 
show business. Her success in night clubs 
was built on her voice. She was a featured 
singer on TV's Hit Parade in 1954. Today, 
she records for Columbia Records. Her 
new album, "Bergen Sings Morgan," cap- 
tures her midnight-blue treatment of 
such standards as "Can't Help Lovin' That 
Man," "Mean to Me," "Body and Soul," 
and "Bill." For the vintage Bergen, there 
is the Jubilee album, "Little Girl Blue," 
wherein Polly also puts the flame to torch 
lyrics. But, surprisingly, the big break in 
her career came about when she recorded 
a hillbilly song entitled "Honky-tonkin'." 

"I was eighteen and a half then," Polly 
explains, "and the trend was to novelty 
tunes. I was making my first record for a 
small company named Kem. I decided to 
do 'Honky-tonkin'; a song I'd learned 
from Dad when I was about four. Unfor- 
tunately, I just missed the trend and the 
record didn't sell much more than a dozen 
copies." 

But Victor liked it so much they tried 
to buy up the master recording. When they 
couldn't, they signed Polly to a contract. 
And there was so much talk in the trade 
about "Honky-tonkin' " that movie com- 
panies began to look twice at Polly. What 
struck them was the seeming incomraati- 
bility of her sophisticated beauty and her 
hillbilly recording. They were hooked, and 
Hal Wallis signed her to a picture con- 
tract. So began her film career, and she 
made movies with Red Skelton, Dean 
Jagger, Vittorio Gassman, Howard Keel, 
Gig Young, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. 

As a TV actress, she played Schlitz 
Playhouse, Studio One, General Electric 
Theater, U.S. Steel Hour and others. Her 
musical and comedy talents landed her on 
the shows of Durante, Ed Sullivan, Perry 
Como, Steve Allen, and Martin and Lewis. 



In 1953, she took up residence in New 
York. The winter of 1953, she made her 
debut on Broadway in John Murray 
Anderson's revue, "Almanac." In the spring 
of 1955, she co-starred in the play, "Cham- 
pagne Complex" and won the critics' praise. 
Before this, she'd sung on Your Hit Pa- 
rade, and then become the "Pepsi-Cola 
Girl." 

"A lot of people are curious about why 
I did the Pepsi stint," says Polly. "I think 
it was one of the best things that ever 
happened to me. It meant earning a tre- 
mendous amount of money, and that 
meant I could be choosey about the jobs 
I took. You know, one of the worst things 
about show business is its insecurity and 
often a performer takes anything that is 
offered, just to be working. Besides that," 
Polly adds, "it's turned out to be a fine 
experience. Pepsi was growing, and it was 
exciting to be on a good team." 

lolly's first marriage, to actor-singer 
Jerome Courtland, ran five-and-a-half 
years and ended in divorce in 1955. Again, 
because of the demands of the business, 
the road tours, the one-nighters, picture- 
making in Hollywood, TV in New York, 
there was a seldom a chance of making the 
real home Polly wished for. It wasn't until 
1956 — when she married a man whom she 
thought she detested — that she got her 
home. 

"Now there's a story," she says. "Fred- 
die Fields had been with Music Corpora- 
tion of America for seven years, and I 
knew him all that time. MCA represented 
me, but Freddie wasn't my personal agent. 
We did run into each other, though, and 
usually head-on. Whenever I walked into 
his office, we had a tremendous fight." 
(Polly digresses to the present for a mo- 
ment, to note proudly: "Freddie is execu- 
tive vice-president in charge of television, 
which is quite a big job for a man of 
thirty-three.") 

"Anyway," she continues, "there was al- 
ways trouble when I had to talk business 
with Freddie. Then it was November of 
1955, and Ed Sullivan asked me to sing at 
a benefit at the Plaza. Well, I had a load 
to tote down there — music, gown, shoes. 
A friend helped me down, but I needed a 
hand for the return trip. MCA had a table 
at the affair and I walked over and asked 
Jay Kantor if he'd help me get home. He 
said that he was very sorry — he'd prom- 
ised to meet his wife and mother in town 
— but why didn't I let him get Freddie 
Fields to help? I said, 'Oh, no. Not him!' 
Jay said, 'He's not so bad.' He went over 
and asked Freddie, and Freddie came over 
with a big grin, for he understood how 
I felt about him. He helped me home 
with my things and asked me to have din- 
ner with him that evening. Because we 
didn't have business to discuss, we found 
that we got along very well. Three months 
later on February 13, 1955 — we married." 

Polly, who practices interior decorating 
as a hobby, has furnished their apartment 
in a mixture of modern and antique. Her 
idea of modern is not to the extreme, but 
rather to simple lines. Two king-size 
sofas exemplify this, but the sofas and 
a huge ottoman surround an enormous 
glass-topped coffee table which was orig- 
inally an antique English door-panel. 

"Both Kathy and I pick at the piano," 
Polly says. "Neither of us has had enough 
lessons to be good. Incidentally, we use 
the living room for living. Maybe that's 
my California background." 

Predominating colors in the living and 
dining rooms are elephant gray, coral and 
green. Polly chose the colors from her 
china, now displayed in a big hutch in the 



dining room, which is almost wholly deco- 
rated in Early American. 

Polly's own bedroom is all white and 
gold, with 17th-century Italian furniture. 
The bed itself is topped off with a hand- 
carved Venetian headboard. On the side 
tables there are tall white-and-gold 
candlesticks that have been converted into 
lamps. Kathy's bedroom is in pink and 
white, with fruitwood furniture and a col- 
lection of paintings of child musicians. 

Kathy and Polly have become very close. 
The morning after the wedding, Polly be- 
gan getting up at 7:30 A.M.— the middle of 
the night, in show business — to dress and 
get Kathy off to school. It was Kathy's 
own suggestion that she and Polly set 
aside one day a week for themselves. They 
decided on Wednesday. Then, at three 
P.M., Polly picks Kathy up at school and 
they carry out a pre-planned excursion. 
It may be shopping, a movie, sight-seeing. 
When Polly had to leave Manhattan to do 
"The Helen Morgan Story," she took 
Kathy out of school. Before the trip, she 
went to Kathy's school and got a schedule 
of lessons for the next four weeks, and 
then personally tutored Kathy. 

"Kathy is very grown-up for her age. 
She's got a rare sensitivity about others' 
feelings." Polly loves children and notes, 
"What I've wanted all of my adult life is 
a baby of my own. I've lost several pre- 
maturely, but I still haven't given up hope. 
This summer, however, we hope to adopt 
a baby." 

Polly is tender-hearted and sentimental 
in many ways, but she definitely has a 
mind of her own. "I guess I'm strong," she 
says. "A woman has to be, when she is 
cutting out a career. But Freddie is strong, 
too, perhaps stronger. We can both be very 
opinionated. Some couples skirt this dif- 
ference by divvying up responsibilities. 
Certain problems are hers and others are 



his. We don't believe in that attitude. I 
think husband and wife are meant to help 
each other and overlap, even if it makes 
for an occasional rumble." Polly smiles and 
goes on, "But this is true, too, about me: 
I need someone to lean on. Every woman 
wants a man who'll take care of her. Fred- 
die gives me that kind of security." 

But Freddie draws the line at publicity. 
He won't talk about himself and rarely 
poses for pictures. "I represent a half- 
dozen stars other than Pol," he explains, 
"and I think I'm more useful to them 
when I don't identify myself publicly." 

He does share Polly's enthusiasm for 
do-it-yourself decorating and makes him- 
self useful wiring lamps, hanging pictures, 
and just being a "handy man." He also 
shares Polly's love of animals. Tinker Bell, 
for instance, was just a kitten in a Hal- 
loween pumpkin, a forgotten TV prop, 
when Freddie rescued her and brought her 
home. And then there was the night he 
went oil a Broadway safari to hunt turtles. 

"That was a night," Polly recalls. "Kathy 
took her pet turtle into the tub with her. 
I didn't know that turtles can swim on the 
surface only so long before they drown 
and, suddenly, Kathy was screaming in the 
bathroom. She told us that she had killed 
her turtle. Well, Freddie and I knew that 
the turtle was dead, but we tried to make 
it look alive by wiggling it in the water. 
Kathy seemed to be convinced and so we 
told her we'd give the turtle a rest and she 
went off to bed. Oh, we knew that she 
would have to find out for herself that 
turtles and goldfish die — and she did short- 
ly afterward — but, at that time, it both- 
ered us that she thought she'd killed it. 

"So, after she went to sleep, Freddie and 
I sat around talking about it and finally 
decided that, since we had told her the 
turtle was alive, we had to replace him 
before morning. It was after midnight, yet 



Freddie went out to find a turtle. He got 
back around two with a small, live turtle. 
He had found it in one of those open-all- 
night stores on Broadway. It was a frisky 
turtle and we were so pleased for Kathy. 
The next morning she was so happy to 
find it alive — but you know children don't 
miss much, and she said, T guess the bath 
was really good for the turtle. It even 
changed him to a nicer color.' " 

Of course, it's rare that a night is spent 
on a turtle chase. Polly and Freddie spend 
most evenings being "small town." Polly 
loves games — bridge, canasta, jotto. And 
she enjoys visiting, talking, being with 
family and friends. Freddie's family is 
close and many evenings are spent in the 
company of his brothers and sister and 
their families. All of his family lives in 
New York except his brother, orchestra 
leader Shep Fields, who lives in Houston. 
Polly's own parents are now making their 
home in Circleville, Ohio, one of the 
towns where they stopped over during 
Polly's early years — it's also the birthplace 
of Polly's sister, Barbara, who is married 
to an American soldier now stationed in 
Europe. 

Polly's private life is stable, but her 
future plans in show business aren't so 
clearly determined. In addition to her 
panel performance, CBS will see to it that 
she also appears in dramatic and musical 
productions during the coming season. If 
she gets around to doing a show of her 
own, she would like it to be a kind of "cap- 
sule" musical comedy. However, she will 
continue to turn down picture offers and 
night-club dates. "I don't mind working 
full time," she explains, "if the hours cor- 
respond with Freddie's business hours and 
Kathy's school day. But I won't work in 
the evening and I won't leave town. I think 
I gave up my ambition for the best reason 
in the world." 



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67 



(Continued from page 50) 
household have a ruler and let him rule. 
Let the boss be boss. 

A major test of Ida's theory was oc- 
casioned by her husband, Howard Duff, 
when he asked, one day shortly after their 
marriage, "Why do you wear tailored, 
severe clothing?" 

"Because it becomes me," Ida explained. 
"I'm small and slight; fussy things would 
overwhelm me. Why?" 

Howard considered for a few moments 
before venturing an opinion that most 
women dress for other women rather than 
for men. He said he thought women re- 
acted, subconsciously, to designs that were 
a modification of masculine attire, whereas 
a man reacted to designs that were pa- 
tently feminine without being overdone. 

That ended the discussion. But, the next 
time Ida went shopping, she rejected the 
severe lines she had previously favored, 
and bought a pale pink chiffon gown that 
clung in the right places, and floated in 
the right places. When she emerged in the 
dress for the first time, ready to attend a 
gala party, Howard expressed his opinion 
in a long, low wolf whistle. 

Under the circumstance, what wife 
wouldn't be happy to accept her husband s 
taste as guide in lieu of her own? Since 
then, Ida's wardrobe has been made up of 
garments in Howard's favorite colors for 
feminine gear: Black, pastel blue, pink, 
and stark white. 

On another occasion, he wanted to know, 
"Why don't you ever wear big, clumpy 
jewelry? Gold bracelets and earrings — 
things like that?" 

Ida refrained from expressing her per- 
sonal taste. Instead, she said, "I've never 
felt like buying such things for myself. 
They're conversation pieces, and I've al- 
ways believed that the conversation should 
start with the fact that the jewelry is 
a gift." 

"I get it," said her husband, with a grin. 
Shortly afterward, he reacted to Ida's 
comment by bringing her a bracelet that 
could have belonged to the Queen of 
Sheba — a costume item, of course, but 
handsome and impressive. "And now," she 
says, "I have quite an entertaining collec- 
tion of such pieces — which I would never 
have acquired if I hadn't been ready to be 
guided by Howard's taste. Letting the boss 
be boss pays off in tangibles, as well as in 
intangible satisfactions." 

One of the standard domestic revolts is 
that brought about by a difference of at- 
titude as to what constitutes recreation. 
The Duffs have no schisms, because How- 
ard's leisure-hour decisions are final. He 
loathes bridge, so no deck of cards mars 
the order of the game-room table. He can't 
endure the idea of making social commit- 
ments far in advance: "How do I know 
whether I'm going to feel like attending a 
dinner party three weeks from tomorrow 
night? I may not be in town, or I may be 
dog-tired. Ask if we can call, the day 
before, to give our final answer." 

Nowadays, the Duffs have a wide circle 
of friends who know that Ida and Howard 
prefer to be called at the last minute. 
Oddly enough, they have made them- 
selves enormously popular among harried 
hostesses who know that, ordinarily, they 
are available on short notice and can fill 
in when others — having accepted on a 
long-range basis — find they must disap- 
point. 
J Conforming to the wishes of the man 
of the house has provided another unex- 
pected recreational experience for Ida. 
One morning, Howard said to Ida, "If 
you're going into Beverly today, would you 
68 



Where Adam Is King 

mind stopping off to buy me some books?" 

"What kind of books? Anything in par- 
ticular?" 

He suggested a novel or two, a book of 
travel, a biography. "You have good judg- 
ment; just browse a while and pick up 
five or six volumes that look interesting." 

Ida complied, and was astonished to see 
her husband settle into a comfortable 
chair beside a window providing excellent 
light by day, and a lamp shedding com- 
fortable illumination by night, and read 
for three or four days steadily, taking 
time out only for an occasional light lunch, 
or a few minutes' cat-nap. Straight through 
the day, straight through the night, in a 
marathon that Ida has labeled a "word 
binge." 

The next time Howard asked for seventy 
to eighty hours of reading matter, Ida 
equipped herself with the same amount, 
plus a stock of food that could be prepared 
quickly, quietly, and at any hour. The 
dual cramming session turned out to be 
fun, and rewarding. "It's amazing how 
much one can get out of a concentrated 
period of absorbing information, impres- 
sions, ideas, and inspiration, while shutting 
out all of the usual distractions," she told 
Howard. 

"Good girl," he said. "I never expected 
to find anyone to share my reading mara- 
thons. It's great. ' 

The success of her early accommodations 
to rule-by-husband may have contributed 
to Ida's later malleability. For instance, 
she had never appreciated San Francisco 
before Howard undertook her Golden Gate 
education. She thinks now that her dis- 
affection was caused by her wartime ex- 
periences, when San Francisco was 
crowded by service personnel en route to 
the Pacific, and the wounded en route to 
hospitals throughout the country. The city 
was an incredible potpourri of color and 
emotion; it was gay and grim; it was noisy, 
drunken, and filled with tears. 

So Ida listened to Howard's glowing 
descriptions of "the real" San Francisco, 
and tried to keep an open mind. There 
came a night when Howard — as he had 
done a hundred times during his bachelor 
days — came home to toss a few things 
into a suitcase. 

"We're going to San Francisco. I've got 
the fever," he explained. 

Thereafter he escorted Ida through days 
of riding up and down San Francisco's 
fabulous hills. He showed her the Cliff 
House, Golden Gate Park, the Mission 
Dolores, the Marina. At night, they visited 
Fisherman's Wharf, DiMaggio's, Barnaby 
Conrad's El Matador, Chinatown, Ernie's 
on Montgomery Street, The Shadows, The 
Blue Fox, and dozens of the little dark- 
box cafes that vibrate with remarkable 
music. 

"And to think," mused a bedazzled Ida, 
"that, if I hadn't learned how to follow 
the leader, I might have teased you into 
going to Palm Springs instead!" 

Of course, there are times when any 
wife — no matter how cooperative — is forced 
to doubt the wisdom of unquestioning 
agreement. Ida had moments of black 
doubt when she accepted an invitation to 
go fishing on the Hood Canal with her 
husband and his brother. 

It was her first experience in a small 
boat under a leaden sky, so she asked 
dubiously, "Don't you think it's going 
to storm?" — being ignorant of the un- 
written law among fishermen that weather 
is never mentioned. Naturally, she was not 
accorded an answer. 

They were well out in the stream when 
the storm broke. The wind roared, the 
sea pounded, the rain cascaded, and the 



three fishermen continued to fish — as if 
their livelihood depended upon it and life 
was cheap. Ida muttered under her breath, 
"We're going to be swamped, that's what," 
but she would have required a coxswain's 
megaphone to make herself heard, so she 
fished, too. She caught four silver salmon. 
Each of the men caught two, but not one 
of them was as large as Ida's smallest 
salmon. The consequent respect accorded 
her — bedraggled, soaked, chilled, and faint- 
ly blue as she was — was still so great that 
she was ready to go fishing again the next 
morning. 

Now and then, however, it turns out 
that a husband must be permitted to lead 
the way in reverse. 

Ida once invented an insect named The 
Fleep. A cross between a fly and a flea, a 
fleep lives — naturally — on sheep. He has 
a corkscrew bill that is handy for spearing 
small fruits or extracting olives from a 
jar. His adventures, according to Ida's 
stories for her daughter, are numerous, 
so Ida tried to persuade Howard to illus- 
strate the life and times of The Fleep. 

Howard's first job was that of cartoon- 
ist on his home-town newspaper, but once 
having escaped the ink pot, he foreswore 
it for good. Nothing Ida said seemed to 
sell him the idea of capturing on paper 
the bee in his wife's bonnet. "I haven't 
drawn a line in years. I'm through with 
all that," he said flatly. 

Ida brought an easel and a supply of 
drawing paper, crayons, chalk, and paints — 
for Bridget, her five-year-old. For Bridget, 
of course. Bridget did her best ... a best 
that attracted her father's helping hand. 
He spent hours teaching her techniques, 
and guiding her color taste, which seemed 
to run — ungoverned — to a combination of 
purple and orange. 

And then Ida awakened in the small 
hours one morning to find her husband 
missing. 

Slipping into a robe, she tiptoed to the 
living room, where she surprised him 
deep in the job of giving The Fleep color- 
ful form. And so, if all goes well, The 
Fleep — in portrait and in prose — will soon 
make its appearance on the nation's book- 
shelves to the delight of children of all 
ages. 

The acid test of the value of letting the 
king be king was applied when Howard 
and Ida decided, some time ago, that they 
had outgrown the apartment in which 
they had started married life. 

Howard had some explicit ideas about 
where the house was to be, how much 
could be invested, and how the floor plan 
should be carried out. They must have 
privacy, yet they could not be too isolated 
from film and telecasting studios; the 
price must not exceed such and such an 
amount; the layout as to kitchen, dining 
room, living room, den, bedrooms, pool, 
patio and entrance should follow a Duff 
outline — which he supplied. 

"You look for the house," he told Ida, 
"while I'm finishing my picture." 

Ida maintained a wifely calm, but ven- 
tured — in the words of the Canadian 
trapper upon seeing a giraffe for the first 
time — "There just ain't no such animal," 
as she scanned Howard's list of architec- 
tural essentials. 

Undaunted and unimpressed, Howard 
replied, "Look, if I can think up a per- 
fectly logical floor plan, knowing that 
most floor plans aren't logical, you can 
bet some first-rate architect has been 
building along those lines for a long time. 
Probably we'll be able to choose from 
several satisfactory houses." 

Mrs. Duff laughed a hollow laugh, half 



in admiration of such optimistic naivete, 
half in exasperation. Yet, such is her con- 
cept of wifery that she set out at once 
to locate Howard's dream house. 

She looked and she looked. Days went 
by. Weeks. Months. Years — two of them. 
A lone satisfaction was discernible: Each 
hour spent in the search reduced the pos- 
sible number of future hours to be spent 
the same way. Even in Greater Los An- 
geles, there is a limit to available housing. 

One late afternoon, Ida ran out of gas 
in a remote section of Bel Air. She tried 
to flag down several motorists, but drivers 
are wary of hitchhikers. Ida had resigned 
herself to removing her spike heels and 
hiking "x" miles to a filling station, when 
a lady stopped to offer a lift. 

There is nothing so comforting to a foot- 
sore, heartsore, and headaching woman 
as the sympathetic ear of a cheerful 
stranger. Ida poured out her woes in a 
torrent. 

The Samaritan, obviously supplied on 
the spot by St. Jude (patron saint of the 
impossible), began to smile. "Oddly 
enough, I'm a realtor," she said. "In my 
purse I have the key for the house you 
have just described. Secluded, yet not iso- 
lated. Price somewhat more than you have 
mentioned, but worth it. Floor plan identi- 
cal to your husband's mental blueprint. 
Would you like to see it?" 

Ida strolled around the house incred- 
ulously. It was a miracle. Then, courtesy 
of the realtor, she refueled her car and 
went home to give Howard the good word. 
He failed to exhibit any surprise what- 
soever. (More husbands escape more lethal 
accidents because of the proper training of 
wives, 'way back in childhood.) 

The following day, he inspected the 
house, agreed to meet the slightly higher 
price, told Ida that she was a genius, and 
now, if she would plan the redecoration, 
select the furnishings, and arrange a mov- 
ing date, he would transport his own books, 
recordings, and similar priceless posses- 
sions. 

"Oh, one thing — lots of blue around. You 
know — about the color of your eyes." 

"Lots of blue," agreed Ida, basking in 
her spouse's obvious admiration. 

The fireplace in the living room was 
white fieldstone; in the den, used brick. 
So Ida combined shades of blue and white 
with a muted rose-red to establish a color 
scheme against which to use brass ac- 
cessories and Early American furniture. 

The Duffs moved in, and Howard could 
be located at various hours, merely stroll- 
ing through the rooms. "Tomorrow night," 
he suggested, "let's ask good old Jack out 
for dinner." (Good old Jack being a 
tennis buddy.) 

A few days later, it was "good old 
George," followed by a parade of Howard's 
chums. Sehor Duff, long noted for his 
restlessness, his inability to stay put in 
one spot for long periods of time, his gypsy 
foot and gypsy heart, had become a home- 
body. Sunk deep in a foam-rubber sofa, 
his feet on the fireplace fender, he in- 
vited the world to find its way to his 
hearthside felicity. 

What wife wouldn't consider two years 
of research a small investment for such 
rich returns! 

"It would have been easy, several times," 
Ida observes, "to have given up and an- 
nounced that we would just have to take 
what seemed to be available. But that 
would have been an example of the impos- 
ing of wifely will, and I felt that it would 
be a mistake. As it worked out, my dogged 
following of instructions has brought us 
lasting satisfaction. The king is still king — 
and a contented king, at that — making 
possible that famous line with which all 
love stories should end, 'And so they lived 
happily ever after.' " 




DO ANY OF THESE 

PROBLEMS 

GET YOU DOWN? 



• How I can Tell My Fiance 
about my Past 

• How to Cope with a Jeal- 
ous Husband 

• Understanding Your In-Laws 

• Meeting the Demands of 
Growing Older 

• Is Artificial Insemination the 
Answer for Childlessness? 



• Can a Divorcee Start Anew? 

• Should We Break Off or 
Should We Marry? 

• How Should Teenagers 
Handle Love? 

• How Can We Help Our 
Children? 

• Getting a Part-time or a 
Full-time Job 



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69 



Be a Cool Warm- Weather Hostess 



(Continued from page 52) 
housewife in a large New York City apart- 
ment and a delightful summer home at 
Mt. Kisco, New York. 

In New York, there is a couple to help 
run the apartment. But, in the summer, 
there is only household help by the day, 
as required, and Arlene is the cook. Even 
for weekend guests. She likes it that way. 
Homemaking and career go together for 
her. Somehow, she finds time for every- 
thing. 

The Gabels love to entertain in their 
new nine-room house, of split-level de- 
sign to fit the hilltop to which it clings. 
"High on a windy hill," Arlene describes it. 
"I want to share the view with everyone. 

"But I like to be part of my own parties, 
and that means a little planning. I sup- 
pose I am a good organizer, but I am not 
a list-maker. I am not that methodical. 
I simply jot down notes during the day, 
later gathering them up and checking off 
what has been done and what remains to 
do. Planning menus for guests, reminding 
myself to get the ingredients for some 
extra-special dish I want to serve, to stock 
up on several brands of cigarettes, to 
check the supply of soft drinks, the paper 
napkins. Reminding myself to lay in such 
items as extra toothbrushes for overnight 
guests who may forget theirs, tissues and 
disposable powder puffs; all the small 
things that add to a guest's comfort and 
keep a hostess from getting flustered." 

Under organization, too, comes the 
choosing of guests who will be congenial. 
People on somewhat chilly terms aren't 
invited the same weekend. People who 
enjoy the same kind of thing are usually 
teamed up, although there's no hard-and- 
fast rule about it. An "outsider," new to 
a group, is often stimulating. You choose 
friends you want to ask at the time, barring 
any real maladjustment with others in- 
vited, and, strangely enough, the most un- 
likely combinations have been known to 
click amazingly well. 

Oetting a time for arrival and departure, 
at the moment of issuing any invitation, is 
always proper. In fact, it's highly desir- 
able. A good guest comes prepared to 
abide by this and, if departure must be at 
some inconvenient hour, makes it known 
as soon as possible, so plans may be made 
accordingly. Cooperative guests are a 
boon to successful weekending, and happy 
is the hostess who has them! 

"If one of my friends shows up a little 
earlier than expected, maybe when I'm 
combing my hair or putting the finishing 
touches to something in the kitchen, I 
would think it the height of rudeness to 
act upset or embarrassed, or to embarrass 
her," Arlene stresses. "Why should anyone 
be flustered? She can follow me wher- 
ever I'm working and we can have a 
little early visit by ourselves while I go 
on with whatever I'm doing. Or, if it 
makes things easier, there is always a 
comfortable chair and a book or magazine, 
or television to entertain her while she 
waits for me to catch up. Cold drinks are 
ready, of course, so an early guest, male 
or female, can relax and cool off. Off-beat 
timing is one of the hazards of being a 
hostess, and surely a minor one." 

Their limit for house guests is usually 
four, the capacity of their sleeping ar- 
rangements, but there are always friends 
who are invited to drive up for the day 
or who come in for dinner. Good food 
T and beverages, an easy manner, good 
v conversation mingled with good humor, 
R informality, a choice of outdoor activities 
and indoor entertainment, rest and relaxa- 
tion are what they find. 
70 



For weekenders, there is a flexible re- 
gime for meals, compatible with country 
informality, and everyone is fed with the 
minimum of work and fuss. Behind the 
scenes, before anyone's arrival, the work 
has been going on and now all is ready. 

Guests get up in the morning when they 
want to, but early risers find all the in- 
gredients for a quick breakfast in the 
kitchen, including one of the instant 
coffees for those who can hardly wait for 
that first cup. Young Peter shines as a 
breakfast host, especially if there is a 
visiting child. He follows the household 
rule of not disturbing grownups — until 
the grownups disturb him! — takes com- 
plete charge of the guests' comfort, 
squeezes the orange juice, uses the electric 
toaster, fills the glasses with milk. All 
without undue noise, until the adults be- 
gin to appear for their fruit and coffee, 
waffles with bacon or sausages, or ham 
and eggs. 

If breakfast has been a late meal for all, 
luncheon is often a snack when and as the 
guests want it. Plates of sandwiches are 
put out, salad, cookies, fruit. If everyone 
wants a regular lunch, it's usually a sit- 
down meal, often with additional guests 
joining the house party. 

Dinner in the country is almost always 
served buffet style. This makes serving 
easier, especially for many guests, and 
eating more leisurely; gives hungry people 
a chance to start early and go back for 
seconds or thirds, while the ones who like 
to approach a meal more slowly can take 
their time. 

It's Arlene's idea that, in a small house, 
it is easier for the hostess to work alone, no 
matter how kind a guest may be about 
offering to assist: "I plan one-dish din- 
ners mostly; big, satisfying casseroles, not 
too fancy or too highly-seasoned in warm 
weather. Something I can prepare ahead 
and re-heat, such as a couple of our 
favorites, beef Stroganoff or shrimp Creole. 
All tried-and-tested recipes, I might add. 
A hostess takes a big chance if she experi- 
ments with new dishes when she has 
guests. 

"If, in spite of all my care, something 
goes wrong with some part of the dinner, 
I don't apologize. Instead, I improvise, 
quickly concoct something else to take its 
place. I'm sure every housewife knows 
what I mean. Too many apologies about 
anything that happens makes guests un- 
comfortable. Somehow, they feel at fault, 
just by being there." 

Foods that add appetite -appeal to the 
buffet are some simple canapes, olives and 
celery and carrot sticks, jellied madrilene 
or a cold vichysoisse topped with chopped 
chives or parsley for a festive, summery 
look. They take very little preparation, 
can all be taken from the refrigerator at 
the last moment. So can a heaping bowl 
of salad, with several dressings on the side 
for easy choice. And the summer desserts, 
the sherbets and ice cream, fresh fruit and 
berries with cream. With mints to top it 
off, coffee, and tea available for those who 
prefer it, the buffet is complete. Enough 
to satisfy the hungriest male who has just 
come in from the golf course or an after- 
noon in the Gabels' big new swimming 
pool. ("Not filled with water, you might 
say," is Arlene's comment, "but with my 
blood, sweat and toil! Because that pool I 
paid for out of my work — which I love 
doing, but which is, nevertheless hard work 
every day.") 

Guests who want to refill glasses, and 
empty overflowing ashtrays (ever notice 
how fast they fill up, no matter how much 
bigger and deeper they get all the time?) 



are always appreciated, but a good guest 
never insists on going into the kitchen if 
her offer to help is tactfully turned down. 
There's a reason, of course. The usual 
house guest doesn't know where every- 
thing is kept, and how things are to be 
served, and she becomes more of a hin- 
drance than a help. If your hostess says yes, 
that's your cue, but a no is also a cue. 
Arlene usually says no, as has been stated, 
not because she is unappreciative but 
because she is prepared and everything 
moves efficiently. 

As a guest, you can perform a real 
service by helping entertain the others 
while your hostess is out of the room — 
and maybe offering your services again, 
not too insistently, of course, when the 
dishes are removed. 

Having three baths for the three bed- 
rooms solves one hostess problem for Ar- 
lene. But, in many homes, bathroom hours 
must be informally allocated, early risers 
getting done and out before the late ones 
take over the lease. (When someone else is 
waiting is no time to do your own light 
laundry, by the way.) And where maid 
service is limited, or non-existent, the 
thoughtful guest makes up her own bed 
and tidies her room. Arlene herself sees 
to it that there are fresh flowers in the 
bedrooms, as well as all over the house, 
flowers being her passion. She puts out 
magazines and books on bedside tables, 
checks reading lamps, lays out extra covers 
and sees that the Sunday paper is handy. 

Guests who bring along comfortable 
country shoes and appropriate clothes are 
more appreciated than the city slickers 
who have to worry about ruined high- 
heeled slippers and mud-spattered silks. 
Your hostess always appreciates the com- 
pliment of having you dress up for some 
special occasion, and usually lets you know 
in advance if this is on the schedule. As 
a hostess, this is a good rule to follow; as 
a guest, you might ask before you pack. 

There's something else important: Most 
people invite both sexes because they 
like that arrangement, but somehow or 
other a party seems to divide itself into 
two "sides," with the men on one and the 
girls on the other. A good guest can help, 
and a good hostess steps in and does her 
part to break this up. In most cases, people 
are at their best when left to talk about 
the things that interest them most. How- 
ever, if a subject is special to one person, 
it should be dropped before it gets boring. 

"Even if you are in the entertainment 
business, as Martin and I are, and as many 
of our friends are," Arlene notes, "the 
'shop talk' can grow tiresome to people 
who aren't, no matter how fascinating they 
may find it at first. Conversation in a room 
filled with people should include many of 
them. If a couple of guests find mutual 
interest in some subject, of course, don't be 
a spoil-sport — up to a point. And an occa- 
sional lull in general conversation doesn't 
mean the party's getting dull. A little 
silence can be restful, especially on a long 
weekend." 

General rules for guiding conversation 
might include an effort to steer a too- 
heated or too-personal discussion to some- 
thing else less flammable, if you can! The 
same goes for long discourses on petty 
domestic problems, if you're dealing with 
women, and petty gossip, if you're dealing 
with either sex. 

Planned activities are fine, if they're not 
too planned or too active all the time. 
Weekends are for recreation, but also for 
relaxation. Hikes may be an anathema to 
those who never walk a block at home. 
Boats are ditto for those who fear the 



water and never get into anything larger 
than a bathtub. If a guest prefers to nap 
while the others play tennis, let him do it. 
If someone wants to watch birds, that's 
recreation, too. 

People who get enough television at 
home should be allowed to wander into 
another room, or to take a walk. Those who 
wouldn't miss a favorite program for the 
best party you could give should be al- 
lowed to watch in at least comparative 
peace and quiet. It's all optional, if the party 
is to be a success and the guests happy. 

Many people like games, but the Gabels 
happen to prefer conversation. If games 
are played, they are usually word games 
of some kind, writing games, mental games. 
People who think that any game is just 
another form of work aren't coaxed to 
join. They can read. At the Gabels', this 
isn't much of a problem. It's mostly talk — 
interesting, exciting, with everybody join- 
ing in, and no one running out of any- 
thing to say. (As it usually is with groups 
of good friends.) 

"We are happy to see that Peter is at 
ease with adults, but even more so with 
children of his own age, and the younger 
ones," says Arlene. "He is flexible and 
kind. If a child wants to bicycle and Peter 
has suggested ball instead, he will get on 
his bicycle first and merely ask if later 
they might play ball. He respects the pri- 
vacy of our guests, seems to sense when 
adults have tired of playing a small boy's 
games and want to retreat back into their 
own world." 

The country house was really bought 
because of Peter. It began as a "token" 
house put in his stocking last Christmas. 
When he questioned what the tiny house 
meant, Arlene told him it was the symbol 
of the one they would have, so he antici- 
pated every moment the summer has 
brought and is enormously happy about 
everything concerned with it, careful about 
the furniture, interested in seeing it beau- 
tifully kept. Eager to have his friends, and 
his parents' friends, enjoy it. 

In fact, no minor or even major accident 
is allowed to mar a guest's visit — a spilled 
cup of coffee, a burn from a cigarette too 
carelessly laid on an ashtray, a broken 
dish. Better a happy memory of a visit 
than everything left in perfect condition is' 
a motto every hostess should tack up in her 
mind. The hostess has a responsibility to 
have enough ashtrays, enough secure 
places to lay empty glasses and used dishes, 
enough lights in hallways and on stairs, 
and the like. 

The matter of a hostess gift often looms 
up to dismay the guest who wants to bring 
one and doesn't know what to buy. Imagi- 
nation, and a little interest in your hostess' 
tastes, are far more important here than 
the present's value. Where there is a child, 
the parents are often glad if he is remem- 
bered, but with something of small value. 
Actually, the hostess gift is a pleasant way 
of saying thank you for an invitation ex- 
tended, but it in no way takes the place 
of a written or telephoned thanks quickly 
following the visit. Thanks should be ex- 
tended also to the host, or to a parent 
or anyone else who helped to make the 
visit memorable. 

It might be mentioned that a good guest 
checks belongings both when packing and 
before leaving. It's an extra chore for the 
hostess to send back all sorts of oddments 
left behind by departing friends, no matter 
how much she loves them. 

These, of course, are merely tips on 
summer hostessing and summer guesting, 
not guaranteed to cover every situation. 
Only a guide to getting organized and 
prepared ahead of time, and having a re- 
laxed and happy weekend. The kind they 
have been having at Arlene Francis's 
house this summer. 



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71 



(Continued from page 24) 
don't differentiate between 'working 
mothers' who may choose to stay at 
home with their kids, cooking, and PTA — 
and 'working mothers' who are off to a 
nine-to-five job. Both are surely working 
toward some family dream. With Bill, the 
children and me, our dream is retire- 
ment in five years — so we can really en- 
joy and devote time to the kids when we 
feel they will most need our direction: 
Jody will then be fifteen; Billy, Jr., 
eleven; and Nita, nine. 

"However, it wasn't necessary for me 
to go to work full-time in a series, for 
our own personal family plan to come to 
fruit — Bill's success has been assured for 
years now. Actually, I looked on the 
series as being good for the children. Why? 
Because they need the security of know- 
ing they will see their mother at certain 
definite hours. On a series, I can give 
them that knowledge — whereas, when I'm 
doing only occasional shows, they never 
know when to expect me home. For chil- 
dren our youngsters' age, this uncer- 
tainty is no good." 

It is for this reason that Barbara and 
Bill work extra hard to come up with 
ideas in which the entire family can join 
forces. "Saturdays and Sundays," says Bill, 
"those are the two most important days 
in the week to our family. Barbara and I 
are always with the kids. We swim in the 
summer, have barbecues and picnics. Fre- 
quently, after church on Sunday, Barbara 
rushes home to make a basketful of sand- 
wiches, we throw the bikes into our Ply- 
mouth station wagon and drive out to 
the west end of the San Fernando Valley, 
where we can ride without worrying about 
traffic. Even four-year-old Nita goes 
along. I used to carry her in a basket on 
my handlebars — now she has a three- 
wheeler of her own. We literally have a 
ball. Besides, the bike-riding keeps Bar- 
bara's waist down." (An uncalled for re- 
mark, which Barbara chooses to ignore.) 
Bill, who works four days a week on 
his Date With The Angels series with 
Betty White, is a friendly kind of father 
who looks after his cubs both proudly 
and protectively. The big Early American 
easy-chair in front of the living-room 
fireplace is his favorite spot in the house. 
One thing he says gives him the greatest 
pleasure in life is curling up in that chair 
with Billy under one arm and Nita under 
the other, reading Mother Goose. (To 

Billy, he also reads "The Tales of Kit 
Carson.") 

Later in the evening, during the school 
season, he and Barbara sit down with 
older daughter Jody for a crack at the 
homework. "I handle the English, history 
and social studies," says Barbara. "Bill 
does the math and lit. Usually, I'll work 
with Jody first — the real reason being 
that, after I check Jody's answers, I 
want Bill to check mine! Believe me, I'm 
trying very hard right now with fractions 
. . . Jody is teaching me a great deal. In 
fact, I think I'm learning as much as she 
is." 

In summer, the family literally camps 
by their pool. Barbara and Bill have a 
unique system for announcing to the 
neighborhood kids at large that the pool 
is now "in session." Barb put up a flag- 
pole last season which can be seen for 
some six square blocks — or so it seems, 
from the number of kids who come 

J a-running. "I don't recognize half of them," 
says Barb. "When the flag is up, either 
Bill or I are there— we have to get our 
sun, too, so we might as well play life- 

_ guard, and the kids know they are wel- 

72 



Almost Like Angels 

come. Also, when the flag is flying, the 
neighborhood mothers know their chil- 
dren are safe." 

"Last month," laughed Bill, "a new fam- 
ily moved in down the street. The woman, 
seeing the flag flying 'most every day and 
not yet knowing its significance, remarked 
to her neighbors that, having personally 
found it difficult to fly the flag every 
Fourth of July, she certainly respected a 
woman as obviously patriotic as Barbara!" 

The pool, back yard and garden are a 
summer home for Bill, Barbara and the 
kids. Bill laid out an area, one hundred 
feet by a hundred-fifty, so there would be 
room enough for all the family's activi- 
ties. Barbecues and baseball, for one. 
Gardening, for another — everybody joins 
in the hoeing, weeding and planting fun. 
"When Billy was five," Barbara recalls, "we 
thought it would be a good idea if he 
planted something of his own — help teach 
him pride of ownership and the miracle 
of growth. 

"We gave him a package of corn seeds 
because they were large enough for him 
to hold easily in his tiny hands. Corn 
becomes a giant of a plant to a little tyke 
like Billy Junior, and it grows fast enough 
so that he could watch its progress from 
day to day — an important consideration 
when you are trying to teach the miracle 
of growth to a five-year-old. 

"Throwing caution to the winds, I gave 
Billy the entire package of seeds, saying, 
'Now, Billy, you plant these just like 
Mother is doing.' He started out well 
enough, with a straight line of corn in the 
vegetable garden. But, in five minutes, he 
became tired of that part of the yard, 
traipsing over to the flower bed. From 
there, he threw his seedlsts willy-nilly. 
Have you ever seen a yard with cornstalks 
growing in the middle of the pansy plot 
and coming straight out of the lawn? 

"I told Bill Senior — who does most of 
our gardening — that I wanted to move 
them. He said he wouldn't think of it. 
Freshest landscaping idea he'd seen in 
years. Practical, too. 

"That, by the way, was the year I bought 
twenty-six packets of flower seeds — the 
pictures were lovely. I intended saving 
the expense of a gardener and doing the 
planting myself. The last day, Nita asked, 
'Mom, what you doing? May I help?' I 
said, 'Sure, here is a package of some 
pretty flowers. Why don't you put them 
over there by the pool?' She did. She 
simply threw them on the ground. You 
know whose flowers grew? Nita's, of 
course. Not mine. Nita's took off like wild 
flowers, and that's just what they turned 
out to be — now, we can't get rid of them." 

Another element which helps keep the 
family together is the fact that the chil- 
dren sometimes work with their parents 
on the motion-picture and television sets. 
"We let them work with us for three 
reasons," says Barbara. "First, we want 
them to know that what we do is work, 
not play. True, there is a certain amount 
of glamour to be found in pictures; but, 
as you shall see, that is all on the screen 
and not behind the camera. Second, all 
children want to mimic their parents — 
to be the sort of man their dad is. Since 
we are proud of our occupation, we en- 
courage their interest. Third and last, be- 
ing with the children on the set gives us 
that much more precious time with them. 

"Jody was the first to be after us with 
the plaintive, T want a job.' So we let her 
work with me one day last year, on a 
picture I did with Joel McCrea called 
'The Oklahoman.' To begin with, she was 
upset because she thought that every- 
body who worked in a Western rode a 



horse. She didn't. On top of that humil- 
iation, she found she had to wear a long, 
old-fashioned dress — over a set of petti- 
coats — plus a pair of long white wool 
stockings. All this on a hot, hot day. 

"Next, she discovered, to her disgust, 
that — even on a movie set — she had to go 
to school. That discouraged her ambition, 
too. But what really sent her into a tizzy 
was the check she picked up at the end of 
the day for her work. Two dollars and 
sixty-three cents were taken out for with- 
holding. 'What's this withholding?' she 
inquired. So, with the check in hand, her 
daddy had a chance to explain about taxes 
and the United States Government. But, 
at nine, I don't suppose the children know 
much about governments. She said, 'You 
mean, somebody is going to keep my two 
dollars?' When Bill assured her they were, 
Jody just about fainted. 'But,' she ex- 
claimed, 'That's eight weeks' allowance!' 

"Billy, Jr., had to have his job, too," 
Barbara continues. "He said to me one 
day, after Jody had had her first job, 'I 
don't care what I do, I want a job.' 'What 
do you want to do?' I asked. 'You're too 
young to deliver papers.' 'Not that kind 
of a job,' he said, 'but another kind of 
job.' 'Exactly what do you mean?' 'I don't 
know,' he replied, 'but I know I gotta 
get me a job.' 

"About five minutes later, I saw him 
through the kitchen window, dressed in 
his Kit Carson cowboy suit — (his favor- 
ite). He was holding Nita by the hand — 
she had on a red dress, red socks, red rib- 
bon in her hair (everything has to match 
these days, with Nita) — and they were 
walking up to the minister's house in the 
back. Then I lost sight. Half an hour 
passed. Then, in tramped Kit Carson, 
shouting, 'Well, Mom, I got my job . . . 
look at this!' — and he held out his hand. 
'How much money have I got?' 

"He had four dimes in his little paw, and 
Nita, who came in behind him, smiling, 
had two dimes. 'Well,' I said, 'you have 
forty cents, and Nita has twenty.' 'Boy!' he 
said, 'I'm going right out again!' I looked 
at him suspiciously. 'Now wait a second, 
young man . . . come back here and tell 
me what you did to get that money.' 

"He looked up at me shyly, from under 
his cowboy hat, and slowly explained, 
'Well, now, Mom, you know those pictures 
of Dad we have in the drawer and give 
to school kids who come over?' 'Yes,' I 
said. 'Well, I took a box of them and went 
around to a few houses. I just ring the 
doorbell and I tell them that we don't 
have any money and they buy 'em.' 

"I'm glad he came home to find out how 
much money he had," Barbara smiles. 
"Bill Senior and I laughed over this 
escapade for weeks." 

.Barbara Hale was born one April 18, in 
DeKalb, Illinois. Her father, Luther, an 
excellent landscape architect, and her 
mother and older sister moved to Rock- 
ford when Barbara was four. Barbara went 
to public school in Rockford. She had no 
desire to become an actress, but thought 
she'd become an artist, a nurse, or a 
newspaper reporter. When she was grad- 
uated from high school, Barbara entered 
the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts, where 
she studied commercial art. Most of the 
students, though, insisted that Barbara be 
their model. She modeled more than she 
painted, finally devoted all of her time to 
working for Corrine and Al Seaman at 
the Chicago Models Bureau. 

Unknown to Barbara, Al Seaman sent 
her picture to a Hollywood studio ex- 
ecutive with whom he had attended school. 
A few weeks later, she had a long-term 



RKO contract in hand and was on her 
way to the star-making town. But, before 
she skyrocketed to fame as Mrs. Al Jolson 
in Columbia's musical, "Jolson Sings 
Again," Barbara met her future husband. 

Bill was born William Katt, May 21, 
1916, in Brooklyn, New York. He went to 
school at P.S. 122, Brooklyn Tech High 
School, and Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, 
where he studied construction engineer- 
ing. During his school days, Bill excelled 
in sports, especially football, baseball, 
hockey and gymnastics. He was Junior 
National Champ in the 220 and 440-yard 
free-style swimming events. 

After leaving school, Bill swam for the 
New York Athletic Club and Dragon 
Swimming Club. He then formed an act 
which played a year at the Palladium in 
London, gave a command performance for 
the royal family, toured the United States, 
and finally opened at Earl Carroll's in 
Hollywood, on Christmas Day in 1942. 
While playing his club date, Bill studied 
celestial navigation at the Pan-American 
School, and he gave up show business to 
become a shuttle pilot during the war. 
After the recurrence of an old spinal 
injury forced him out, he came back to 
try his hand in the motion -picture field. 

.Barbara and Bill met on his first pic- 
ture, "Murder in the Blue Room." "Bill 
was killed in the second reel," Barbara 
remembers. "But he died so beautifully, 
I knew I had to meet him." 

Bill and Barbara were married in June, 
1946, after a two-year romance which 
blossomed idyllically in the studio com- 
missary, on the California beaches (they 
both loved swimming) and on the amuse- 
ment piers (inexpensive dates) . 

Barbara Johanna ("Jody"), their first 
child, was born July 24, 1947. William, Jr., 
("Billy") was born February 16, 1951. 
And Juanita, ("Nita"), was born Decem- 
ber 22, 1953. Barbara and Bill have had 
knock-down, drag-out fights over the chil- 
dren's names. Bill insists on naming them 
after relatives — and always wins out. 

Though the children arrived without 
mishaps, Barbara reports that little Nita's 
appearance on the scene caused a certain 
amount of consternation to Billy. "Where- 
as Jody thought Nita was the most won- 
derful thing in the world because she was 
a little girl," says Barbara, "Billy felt just 
the opposite. When we brought Nita home, 
Billy packed a little bag and sat out on 
the front porch. He was too afraid to leave 
the porch, but he knew he had to go some 
place!" 

To help put across some sex education, 
Bill and Barbara bought a cat last year — 
in the hope that this year she would 
have kittens. She will. Billy, Jr. — whose 
responsibility it is to feed both Mitzi, the 
cat, and Punch, their great collie dog — 
says proudly, "Mitzi is going to have kit- 
tens. She eats about two gallons of food 
. . . but thea, she's just not normal, you 
know." 

A more "normal" family than Bill and 
Barbara and their brood of three would 
be hard to find in these United States. 
Their idea of making it the family busi- 
ness to do things together, as much as pos- 
sible, has paid off in a profit of smiles and 
happy children's laughter measured by the 
year and not by the hour. 

"There's just one thing," muses Barbara. 
"My husband's other wife — Betty White 
over at ABC. . . . I'm going to have to talk 
CBS into marrying bachelor Perry Mason 
off to that gal, Delia Street, he's been see- 
ing so much of lately. . . ." 

Which only proves there's a bit of 
impishness in even the best-planned 
"heaven on earth" — and that there's more 
fun for any family which doesn't try to 
be too angelic! 




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73 



Two Hands Full of Laughter 



(Continued from page 58) 
back her up in this view. Listening to 
questions, her eyes seem more active than 
her hands. But when she begins to talk 
about her life and the entertainment field 
to which she has given so much, suddenly 
her hands come alive — they begin to 
weave their magic ... to weave a tapestry 
of laughter, understanding and tears. 

"I was born in Parsons, Kansas," she 
says. "The records say January 3, at the 
turn of the century. It seems a hundred 
thousand years ago, doesn't it? — when you 
think that we're preparing to make a land- 
ing on the moon!" She stares a moment 
through the window of her dressing room 
on the Hal Roach lot. "I was a serious little 
girl, I think . . . sort of dreamy and a little 
lost in my dreams. Yet, I don't believe I 
was sad or unhappy. This was in California, 
you know — Santa Cruz. We had moved 
there when I was six months old. And I 
hadn't a notion, I'm sure, of ever going 
on the stage. But when I was seventeen — 
ah!" 

She had been on vacation with her 
parents and they had come to Los Angeles 
to "see the sights." They were invited to 
a party — by whom, where, she can't re- 
member. All she knows is, at that party, 
"the sky opened" and great good fortune 
came shining down on her. She was in- 
troduced to "a wonderful woman" who 
sensed the talent lying dormant and ar- 
ranged for her to try out for a part in 
Mary Pickford's "The Little Princess." 
This wonderful woman was Frances Mar- 
ion, one of Hollywood's greatest writers 
and star-makers. "I won the part," ZaSu 
smiles, "and Frances and I are still close 
friends. I admire her more than anyone 
else I know. I also admire Mary, and we 
see each other as often as we can." 

ZaSu can truthfully be called "an over- 
night success." She herself says, "I was 
very, vdry lucky in my career. And, in 
those days, competition wasn't so fierce." 
But, if she was "lucky," it was not merely 
for herself; she brought luck to others. In 
1919, a short while before "Little Princess" 
was released, ZaSu became the luck-charm 
which director King Vidor speaks of to- 
day as "my heaven-sent gift." 

As Vidor recalls it, he was riding on a 
Hollywood Boulevard streetcar when his 
eye was taken by a strange young girl — 
"pretty in a lanky kind of style" — sitting 
opposite him. She was watching the street 
signs anxiously as the car sped along. Each 
time she turned to look, somehow she man- 
aged to strike one of the passengers. When 
her stop was called, she showed her ap- 
preciation to the conductor by somehow 
jamming her elbow into his stomach. All 
this was done most innocently, and she re- 
treated down the aisle, knocking hats, 
heads and newspapers in embarrassment 
and confusion. Most of the passengers were 
in an uproar by the time she got off, and 
Vidor's curiosity was so stirred that he, 
too, hopped off the car and caught up with 
her as she reached the corner of Holly- 
wood and Gower. "This, I realized at once, 
was a character," he says, "and I wasn't 
about to let her walk out of my life." 
He asked her name. 

"ZaSu," she replied, and seeing his be- 
wilderment, said again, "ZaSu, last of 
Eliza, first of Susie." She twinkled at 
him. "ZaSu Pitts . . . like cherry pits." 
He also learned that she was looking for 
work as an actress, while living at the 
T Studio Club. "It's a nice place, isn't it?" 
v This recommendation was accompanied 
R by a hearty blow on his chest, and he stood 
there, scratching his head as she went on. 
To this meeting, Vidor credits his in- 
74 



spiration for "Better Times," his first im- 
portant film. The day after, he began work 
on a story about an unloved wallflower 
in a boarding school who pretends to be 
courted through the mails by a big-league 
ball player. Brentwood Productions were 
persuaded by Vidor to hire ZaSu for the 
lead. She proved to be a "natural" in it — 
which was no surprise to Vidor, who had 
written the part for her. David Butler, now 
a successful producer, played her leading 
man. ZaSu went on to do several films for 
Vidor, all notable hits. 

The hands pause . . . fold one upon the 
other in a posture of silence and medi- 
tation. "I was climbing that long, high 
ladder to stardom. That's what the critics, 
the people in the industry said. But what 
nobody seemed to realize was that I my- 
self never considered myself a star in the 
sense of a Pickford or a Mabel Normand. 
In fact, for years, I had a monopoly on all 
the fluttery maid parts which, as a sincere 
actress, I felt were the utter and bitter 
end." Devoted fans know that her "Yes, 
m'lady" roles came later, and that they 
were preceded by a flock of top dramatic 
parts in major pictures. "Oh, I don't deny 
I was in some good ones," she says. "But 
I thank my directors for that. And, when 
we talk about directors, let's never forget 
one of the greatest . . . who worked to 
bring out the best in me. . ." 

It is Erich Von Stroheim that she re- 
calls in this tribute. "He had the patience 
of a saint who is dedicated to perfection. 
This made him seem like a devil to some 
actors. He'd resort to the harshest meas- 
ures to get a scene exactly right. There's 
a scene in 'Greed' — we did it sixty-two 
times before he could be satisfied. And we 
had no dressing rooms, you know. We'd 
just rest on cots between shooting." 

"Greed," one of the first films made for 
Metro and Goldwyn after they consoli- 
dated, is still ranked as a Von Stroheim 
masterpiece. Made in 1925, it vied with 
Cecil B. DeMille's "The Ten Command- 
ments" (first version) for best film of the 
year. The lust for money, and the destruc- 
tion it can cause, was the theme, and today 
ZaSu still says, "Money is good for taking 
care of your needs and responsibilities. It's 
no guarantee of happiness. I had plenty of 
money in the old days, but I can't, in all 
honesty, say I was truly happy. That came 
later . . . after I met Pops . . . Mr. Woodall, 
you know." 

Edward Woodall, it should be pointed 
out, is her husband, the man whose love 
she describes as "filling my world with 
goodness the way the sun fills our universe 
with light." He had not yet walked into 
her world at the time she was soaring to 
fame in a succession of dramatic screen 
roles. One of the most memorable of these, 
it is generally admitted, was the tragic 
part of the lame princess in Von Stroheim's 
"The Wedding March." As a work of art, 
the picture is still considered masterly. 

"The talkies hadn't been with us very 
long," ZaSu continues, "when the ax 
crashed down. I was typed, and — of all 
things— typed as a comedienne." It was in 
a gangster picture that this "disaster" 
occurred. There was a scene "of heart- 
rending anguish," and she was directed 
to wring her hands for effect. "I couldn't 
seem to get the right tone — and blew up. 
In disgust, I cupped my hands over my 
forehead and let out a doleful 'Oh, dear.' 
The reaction may have been unplanned 
but, believe me, it was explosive. Every- 
one on the set went into convulsions. They 
laughed and laughed. The director was de- 
lighted. He felt the plot was too heavy and 
he decided to keep this 'bit' to brighten 



things up. It turned out to be a big suc- 
cess with the public and, in my next pic- 
ture, they had me do more of the same. 
Soon there was a whole slew of pictures 
which showed me using those silly ges- 
tures. It was opening a new career for me 
as a comedienne, but it finished the career 
I loved, as a dramatic actress." 

But now the expressive hands and voice 
weave brighter colors into the story. "If 
my career took a wrong turn — if I felt 
discontented with the parts I had to play," 
ZaSu recalls, "the happiness I was sudden- 
ly finding in my personal life more than 
made up for it." For ZaSu had met Edward 
Woodall, an advertising executive — had 
met and married him, and was beginning 
to immerse herself in the pleasures of 
that most fulfilling role — wife and mother. 
She might have descended to playing 
"movie maid to every star in town," but, 
in her own large home on Rockingham 
Road in fashionable Brentwood, she 
reigned supreme as "Moms" to an ador- 
ing husband and two children, Ann and 
Don. She was also a much sought-after 
matron in the social life of the community. 

"We needed a big place then," she sighs, 
"what with two lively children, cats, dogs, 
ponies and what-not. Entertaining was 
lavish then. It was part of the times. We 
were never quite on the scale of Pickfair, 
but we did live it up some, nevertheless." 

Although acting still made considerable 
demands on her time and energy, her 
family recalls gratefully "all she did, all 
she tried to do." Even when she was called 
away on location or on a tour, "in small 
ways all her own," she left behind a very 
palpable sense of her presence. Ann — now 
Mrs. John S -for- Stanford Reynolds — re- 
lates that, when ZaSu was away: "Some- 
how, the house seemed to develop an echo 
in it . . . the rooms seemed emptier, Dad 
seemed just a wee bit tireder and we kids 
found our games and lessons duller. And 
yet we were all filled with a feeling of 
expectation ... as if, deep down, we — the 
house, the servants, the pets — all of us 
knew that Moms was still with us ... at 
any moment, we'd hear her footstep." 

It is a family joke now, but there were 
tragic echoes of one childhood incident 
which Ann recalls. "Don and I were kids 
when we sneaked off to a movie that was 
featuring Mother. I can't recall the name, 
but there was a scene where she was about 
to be killed. Don jumped up and began 
yelling, 'Don't kill my Moms!' while I cov- 
ered my face with my dress and wept 
bitterly." Something of this terror was 
repeated for Ann and her father and 
brother, three years ago, when ZaSu 
underwent three operations for cancer. 
"We were suddenly back in that movie 
house, terrified," Ann continues. "Only 
Mom remained steadfast. She never lost 
hope, and she wouldn't let us lose hope. 
They had to cut into her arm and side. 
But — to give you an idea of the stuff she's 
made of — shortly after her last operation, 
she gave a benefit at Palm Springs. She 
looked all in, and we begged her not to go 
on. But she couldn't be stopped." 

ZaSu herself takes pride in her recovery 
and explains with a chuckle how she 
bought an old-style car with the standard 
shift so that her arm and side would get 
a proper amount of strengthening exer- 
cise. But it is when she speaks of her 
family that her pride takes on new dimen- 
sions. 

She was starring in "Out All Night," and 
a dimpled, blond cherub appeared on the 
set to do a bit. ZaSu took the little girl 
under her wing and told anyone who 
would listen, "This child will be great." 



Two years later, the child — Shirley Tem- 
ple — and her family moved into the house 
next to ZaSu's, and they were neighbors 
and friends for years. It was Don who first 
taught Shirley how to ride a pony. "She 
liked to run over and sample my pies," Za- 
Su smiles. "And here's an odd coincidence: 
My first film was "The Little Princess' — 
and then, after so many years, who comes 
along but little Shirley and does the re- 
make in the part Mary Pickford played." 

If ZaSu was both a delight and an enigma 
to her own children, she is merely a de- 
light to her grandchildren. "The kids are 
wise to her," Ann says gleefully. "When 
I get ready to administer a spanking, they 
giggle and say, 'Betcha Grandmother leaves 
the room.' " ZaSu herself remarks wryly, 
"I guess I'm of the old school that thought 
spankings were old-fashioned." 

The famous hands are quiet as ZaSu re- 
calls old friends. "How clever and talented 
they were! And how I miss them!" Sor- 
rowfully she calls the roster of the unfor- 
gettable dead: "Edna Mae Oliver, Slim 
Summerville, Thelma Todd . . ." And then 
her hands move, and the past is reluctantly 
put aside. She begins to revel in the pres- 
ent, in her new friends, in her newfound 
career in television. "Gale Storm is as 
dear to me as my own daughter. And Hal 
Roach, Senior — you know, he still drops in 
on the lot for a chat about the old days. 
He likes to tease me by saying I haven't 
changed a bit. And I come back at him by 
asking if he'd like to star me in one of his 
old bathing-beauty, Keystone Cop series. 
And then there's Bones Vreeland, our pro- 
duction head. He's been a great help. 
Would you believe it? I've begun to get 
a flood of fan mail since I became 'Nugey.' " 

Her smile brightens. "The way they all 
take care of me around here!" ZaSu, who 
eats like a bird, usually brings nothing but 
a pint of buttermilk to the lot. But a day 
never passes without Roy Roberts — the 
captain of the luxury liner in Oh! Su- 
sanna — dropping in her dressing room with 
a sandwich. Or else it's Gale Storm — or 
even one of the "grips" — with a piece of 
homemade pie. "Well," exclaims Gale, 
"we're only paying back for all the mother- 
ing she's given us. How she hovered over 
me when I was pregnant!" 

ZaSu herself is obviously delighted by 
the stories told about her. She laughs as 
heartily as the rest, when Bill Seider, her 
TV director, tells the following anecdote: 
"I'd worked with ZaSu before, so I was 
prepared. But poor Roy Roberts, he didn't 
know. So when I heard her blow a line 
during rehearsal, I yelled 'Look out!' — and 
ducked. Roy got it square on the chest." 
Gale breaks in with, "We're all on to her 
now, and the second she fluffs a line — 
which she seldom does — we all begin duck- 
ing out of range. Imagine! She's the gen- 
tlest of people. But when she goofs, ZaSu 
Pitts starts swinging!" 

Others recall that she's always an hour 
late for appointments, because she can't 
stand traffic and, like as not, will pull up 
to the side of the road and patiently wait 
until the rush is over. Still others tease 
her slyly about her hankering to make a 
comeback as a serious dramatic actress. 

All of it pleases her, fills her with a 
youthful zest, brings the color into her face 
and the sparkle into her eyes. "Oh," ZaSu 
cries, "I am so lucky. My family, my 
friends, all of whom stood by me so loyally 
when my acting seemed limited to maids 
. . . when I was so sick . . . my dear hus- 
band who, when we sold our big home and 
moved into a small apartment, put his arm 
around me and said, 'Moms, the smaller 
the place, the closer we'll be.' I am a lucky, 
happy woman!' " 

The hands weave on their tapestry of 
wonders . . . the hands weave out the 
wonders of a life. . . . 



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75 



From the Fields of The Dakotas 



(Continued from page 34) 
could happen, and he wouldn't be able to 
pay. But Lawrence Welk's father was even 
more concerned about his son's future. 
He'd seen some of those traveling musi- 
cians who came through Strasburg, North 
Dakota, playing barn dances and fairs. 
They drank whiskey. They wisecracked. 
They had no roots, these fellows. They 
played their music . . . and moved on. 

"Dad didn't want me to leave the farm." 
Lawrence Welk says now, "and especially 
for the music business. He felt it wasn't 
stable enough, and that the musicians he'd 
seen were a little loose and adventure- 
some. He was afraid the same thing 
might happen to me. My dad was trying 
to save my soul, and he thought there 
would be a better chance of saving it on 
the farm." 

But, for young Lawrence, there could 
be no harvest, there could be no life . . . 
without music. Even ploughing the field, 
he could hear music. He heard music 
everywhere. It came out of the wind and 
sun and earth ... an imaginary symphony 
with Lawrence directing it. His sisters 
and brothers would tease him about his 
imaginary bands, and about how he would 
go out to the barn and dance, with some 
prop or other. ... "I danced with a 
pitchfork, I danced with anvthing. I just 
loved music and I loved to dance," he 
recalls. "Music was on my mind all the 
time, whether I was cleaning out the barn 
or hauling hay or harnessing the horse to 
go out in the field. I had a constant 
dream of music." 

Alone in the barn, Lawrence Welk 
would direct his imaginary band: "I would 
hit the anvil, the rain barrel, a horseshoe, 
anything that would make a sound. And 
I used to make a 'violin' with horsehair 
'strings' from a horse's tail." . . . His father 
liked music, too, but music was for re- 
laxing after a hard day's work in the 
field — not a life's work. Lawrence, -in 
fact, had first learned to play the accor- 
dion on his father's old push-and-pull 
squeeze box, one of the few meager pos- 
sessions his parents had brought over on 
the boat from the Old Country when they 
came to America in search of a home. 

1 o Ludwig and his pretty dark-haired 
wife, Kristina, roots were the riches of 
the earth. Their homeland, Alsace-Lor- 
raine, had been a pawn for power be- 
tween Germany and France through the 
years, and they were torn back and forth, 
changing nationality. Devoutly religious 
and peace-loving, they had no country to 
call their own. And when the Prussians 
overrode their lands — they fled. . . . Along 
with other German settlers, Ludwig and 
Kristina Welk filed to homestead rich 
farmlands just outside Strasburg, North 
Dakota. Looking across the field of 
buffalo grass that stretched miles on every 
side of them — the prairie land that would 
some day belong to them and to their 
sons — they thanked God for this new land 
which had opened its arms to them. 

For a shelter, Ludwig and Kristina 

Welk used the only material they could 

afford. Earth. With their own hands, 

they built the sod house, where Lawrence 

Welk would one day be born. They took 

long thick strips of sod and dovetailed 

them together like bricks. They put 

boards across the top of the thick walls 

and piled very thick layers of sod on top. 

Only a torrential rain would melt the 

T roof down a little into the living room. 

v Then Ludwig would carry more sod to the 

R roof and pack it tight together again, 

thankful for the buffalo grass in the sod 

that helped it hold. As they could, they 



built partitions, put in a floor, and built 
a wood frame on the outside. 

"It was a very comfortable house," re- 
calls Lawrence's sister, Eva Welk, today 
a nurse in Aberdeen, South Dakota. "The 
walls were eighteen inches thick — it was 
the warmest place in the winter and the 
coolest in the summer. All eight of us 
were born there. Our youngest brother, 
Mike, still lives there." 

And there, on March 11, 1903, the man 
who was one day to make music that 
would reflect the grass-roots of his own 
heritage — music of the people, music all 
America would love — was born. "Lawrence 
worked very hard doing the farm chores," 
Eva says. "He worked in the field, he 
helped with the milking, and he would go 
into town to sell the cream." 

Young Lawrence was early initiated to 
the rewards of hard work — a lesson which 
would be invaluable to him later on. Their 
ground made forty bushels of wheat, 
where their neighbors' made thirty. They 
worked longer hours, planted earlier, and 
his dad watched that land like a dedicated 
man. "Not only that — but Dad was also a 
blacksmith by trade," says Lawrence 
Welk. "He would repair all our own 
things, and those of our neighbors, too." 

What he remembers most about his 
parents was their great happiness, and 
their gratitude to America: "They were so 
happy here, and so happy about the treat- 
ment they received in America. So grate- 
ful for the warmth and kindness they 
found here." 

Ludwig taught his son how to play some 
old-fashioned German waltzes on the 
worn squeeze-box with the imitation 
pearl buttons that young Lawrence fin- 
gered so lovingly. They had an old pump 
organ, too, and Eva remembers how 
"Lawrence would pump the organ in the 
parlor and the rest of us would gather 
around and sing." She adds, with a smile, 
"Lawrence used to keep our cows awake 
until late at night, out in the barn, prac- 
ticing on the accordion Dad brought over 
from the Old Country." 

But there was one grim year when the 
music almost stopped for Lawrence 
Welk — all music. When he almost died 
from a ruptured appendix, and went 
through long months of recuperation aft- 
erward. A year that was to limit his 
future in some ways, and make music his 
whole world. This illness he remembers 
very well: "I was unconscious, and, when 
I came to, I was in the hospital and they 
were trying to hold me down — I was. try- 
ing to climb the wall. When I opened my 
eyes again, I saw all of my relatives 
standing around the bed. I knew some 
of them had come a long way in a horse- 
and-buggy — seventy miles — to get there. 
It was a big relief, after seeing them, 
when I heard the doctor say he thought 
I was over the crisis." 

After being out sick that year, Lawrence 
wouldn't go back to school. As he ex- 
plains now, "I was growing all that year, 
and I was much taller than any of the 
kids I would have been in class with. My 
parents felt I should go back to school, 
anyway, but I had a real complex about 
it. I'd been sick before in my younger 
days, I'd missed school, I was taller than 
the others — and I was very uncomfortable. 
So I wouldn't go. ... I regretted it later 
on in life, when I got into business. I 
knew how much I'd missed, and how 
much easier it might have been for me 
if I'd gone to school and studied, along 
with my music." 

Later on in life, he was to spend hours, 
nightly, reading books and educating him- 



self. However, in his particular case, 
Lawrence Welk weighs today whether he 
would have fought as hard for success — 
"if I'd had the schooling. I'm not so sure 
I would have had the drive and the de- 
termination I've had to have, if an edu- 
cation had made it all easier I'm not 
sure I would have gotten this far in 
music — that I would have had that much 
desire." 

Desire, he had. There was no other life. 
He felt shy and ill-at-ease with his for- 
mer schoolmates, so he was out of the 
swim there. He worked on the farm — and 
music was his whole world ... a world 
that was threatened, too, when Lawrence 
Welk broke his arm at the age of sixteen. 
He was to need all that determination and 
desire in the months that followed. 

-Kemembering now, he says, "I was in 
the field ploughing. I had a lazy horse, 
and I hit him with the whip, and he took 
off like a jet — taking the plough and me 
with him. The plough hit a rock and 
jumped up and threw me into the middle 
of the horse — I landed on my arm." When 
he crawled to his feet in a daze, "I saw 
my arm just hanging there — and I knew it 
was broken." At the moment, he could 
feel no pain, because of a more agonizing 
thought: "I could only think of one 
thing — I wouldn't ever be able to play the 
accordion again." 

Luckily, his arm healed. But the inex- 
pensive accordion Lawrence had "went to 
pieces" the following year. "One reed 
was out of tune — it used to hurt me so 
much to hear it. When I hit the sour 
note, it would just about kill me. I was 
about ready to give up playing the ac- 
cordion." Then he found his dream accor- 
dion in an advertising catalogue which 
manufacturers mailed to the Welk house. 
"Four hundred dollars was an awful lot 
of money," he says. "More money than 
my parents could usually save in a whole 
year." Mindful of this, Lawrence told his 
dad he would play at weddings and cele- 
brations around Strasburg and pay him 
back. But that didn't persuade him. 

"It took me quite a while to talk Dad 
into it. I got Mother on my side. She 
knew how much I wanted the accordion, 
and she talked to him. Then I went to 
him with my proposition. I promised I 
would stay on the farm until I was 
twenty-one if he would buy the accordion 
for me. And I would also pay back every 
cent it cost. . . . That was a beautiful 
day!" Lawrence Welk glows, recalling 
their agreement. 

Ludwig Welk believed with all his heart 
that to be a musician wouldn't be a 
wholesome future for his son. His future 
belonged to the land. Here were their 
roots — here on the prairie the Welks had 
homesteaded in North Dakota. . . . Fur- 
thermore, the accordion was much too ex- 
pensive, and Ludwig would have to buy 
it on credit. This was against his prin- 
ciples, and the whole family was im- 
pressed when he agreed to do it. "That 
was the first thing our parents had ever 
bought in installments," says sister Eva. 

Ludwig Welk had decided to make a 
gamble. He would pay out four hundred 
dollars "on time." Lawrence was seven- 
teen years old — and, if this would keep 
him on the farm for four more years, it 
would be a worthy investment. When he 
was twenty-one, he would be more ma- 
ture and he would be able to see that, in 
this wonderful country of America, the 
land was his life. If, when he was twenty- 
one, he wouldn't stay — this was America, J 
too. Freedom for a man to believe as he 
will, to decide his own way. . . . 



But, to young Lawrence, at seventeen, 
freedom was the accordion for which he 
waited with such impatient eagerness. "It 
was a special accordion, and it took them 
three months to build it," he remembers, 
as vividly as yesterday. "Then, after it 
was finished, I still waited for six weeks. 
Every day I would hitch up the horse and 
buggy and drive into town to the depot, 
to see whether my accordion had come. 
I'd go to town very happy, anticipating the 
accordion would be there. But, on the 
way home, it wasn't unusual for me to 
have tears in my eyes . . . just from dis- 
appointment — and my love for the instru- 
ment." 

He'll never forget the afternoon the ac- 
cordion finally arrived: "I got home 
around four-thirty, and I played until 
dinner time. I played after dinner — until 
everybody was going to bed, and they 
took it away from me. The next morn- 
ing, I was up with the chickens . . . and 
playing it again." 

To Lawrence Welk, the four years be- 
fore he turned twenty-one . -. . before he 
was free to follow his music wherever it 
led . . . seemed an eternity. He paid his 
father back in two years, playing for 
"barn dances and 'name day' celebrations 
and wedding parties." He would make 
five or ten dollars for dances — "but the 
wedding parties would last three days, 
and I would bring home fifty or a hun- 
dred dollars." 

On his twenty-first birthday, his prom- 
ise to his father fulfilled, Lawrence left 
the sod house where he had been born . . . 
free to follow the music — somewhere, 
wherever it might lead. "I didn't have 
any money, and I had no special place 
to go. Then I didn't have my heart set 
on doing anything big in the future, really. 
I just loved to play the accordion — and 
went out hunting a job." 

Leaving the main street of his home 
town behind him, he never dreamed a 
day would come when a sign there would 
read: "Strasburg, North Dakota — Home of 
Lawrence Welk." Ludwig Welk had told 
him goodbye with a heavy heart. Law- 
rence had repaid him for the accordion . . . 
but not for an immigrant father's dream 
of his sons farming and enriching the 
land which had been so good to all of 
them. As Lawrence says now, "I don't 
think he was too proud of me. Not until 
I quit fooling around — playing with this 
group and that one — and treated music 
more like a business. After a year, I be- 
gan to have more purpose." 

Lawrence had formed a little band and 
was playing a dance at a fair in Selby, 
South Dakota, when fate introduced him 
to veteran showman George T. Kelly and 
his wife Alma . . . two endearing people 
to whom Lawrence Welk feels so indebted 
today, for the part they played in giving 
his music purpose — and in giving him a 
springboard toward the future. "This is 
the man," he says with obviously deep 
emotion, "who really started me in show 
business. If it hadn't been for George and 
for Alma — and all the teaching they gave 
me — I don't think I could ever have made 
it." 

During the winters, George Kelly had a 
small vaudeville troupe called "The Peer- 
less Entertainers," who doubled on in- 
struments, playing dances after their 
shows. Mrs. Kelly sold tickets, acted as 
treasurer, wardrobe mistress, and gen- 
erally did whatever else needed to be 
done behind the scenes. During the sum- 
mers, George worked with carnivals, 
"barking" the attractions on the mid- 
way. ... He was in Selby with a carni- 
val — and dropped by the local dance hall 
one evening. 

"I went up front and sat down close to 
the stage," he remembers. "And I no- 



ticed this young fellow playing his accor- 
dion. He had a lot of pep, a good smile, 
and he was continually moving with the 
rhythm of the music. The warmth and 
music fairly poured out of him, and I be- 
lieved he would be a tremendous asset 
to my troupe — although, at that time, no- 
body was using an accordion in traveling 
aggregations." 

Kelly asked Welk how he thought he'd 
like show business. Well, Lawrence said, 
he'd seen a medicine show under canvas 
in Strasburg once . . . and he thought he 
might enjoy it. "He agreed to join our 
troupe," the showman grins now. "How- 
ever, a difficulty arose when I found out 
the salary he was expecting! Lawrence 
wanted fifty dollars a week — and, at that 
time, we were hiring the best of perform- 
ers for twenty-five dollars a week and 
expenses." 

"That's pretty high," he told Lawrence. 
But he "sized him up" and knew Law- 
rence would be a tremendous drawing 
card ... all the more so, since their troupe 
would be playing German settlements 
throughout the Dakotas. "I'll tell you 
what I'll do," Kelly proposed. "I'll pay 
all the expenses, including salaries to per- 
formers, and then we'll split the net pro- 
ceeds fifty-fifty." 

Lawrence agreed heartily. As he laugh- 
ingly says now, "I had learned that it was 
good business not to be overanxious. I 
would have gladly accepted George's first 
offer — but I paused a little bit. And, when 
I paused, George went up on the price!" 

o alary seemed of small moment imme- 
diately, anyway, since they were opening 
in a little place in South Dakota called 
Westport, where George Kelly wanted to 
break in his inexperienced troupe — which 
consisted of Harry Woodmancy, a saxo- 
phonist, and Lawrence and himself. "They 
were about as bashful as anybody could 
be. And I was just as skeptical whether 
I would be able to get them to say any 
lines whatsoever — especially Lawrence." 

They were set for the town hall in 
Westport, and Kelly was anxious to have 
a dress rehearsal the afternoon of the 
show. But there'd been an election, and 
somebody had brought the stove right up 
in the middle of the stage, to keep the 
city fathers warm while they counted the 
votes. George and his "troupe" were car- 
rying the stove and its pipe back down, 
when a group of women walked in. 

"I thought they had a squawk of some 
kind," Kelly grins. "Some towns weren't 
partial to dancing then, and I was appre- 
hensive. However, they were a committee 
from the Ladies' Aid, and they wanted to 
know if I would have any objection to 
their serving a 'supper' at the dance, with 
the proceeds to be used for a local char- 
ity. Naturally, I was elated, and I figured 
we might have a fair little house. When 
the doors opened, they literally started 
piling in! Lawrence was peeking through 
a hole in the curtain — and, as the crowd 
grew bigger, his knees clicked louder. 
The ladies sent men out to a nearby pool 
hall to lug chairs in. They brought planks, 
soda-pop cases — anything they could find 
— for seats. 

"Lawrence and Woodmancy really had 
stage fright, but we went out, sat down 
and started the overture behind the cur- 
tain. When the curtain rose, they imme- 
diately became old troupers. As long as 
they could hide behind their instruments, 
they felt better. They'd both been used 
to playing for crowds at dances, and that 
was a big help. When we started the 
sketches — well, they missed lines, but it 
only added to the fun." 

When, at the end of the evening, Mrs. 
Kelly told them they'd taken in a hun- 
dred and sixty-five dollars, they were all 



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77 



78 



elated. Lawrence couldn't get over it. 
"George," he said, "we'll all be million- 
aires before this is over!" 

They played one-night stands in opera 
halls, and often in empty bank buildings. 
Lawrence Welk became increasingly ver- 
satile. He played the heavy in one skit 
called "The Patent Pusher," in which 
Kelly portrayed a Swedish inventor and 
Lawrence was the villain trying to steal 
his inventions. "George was always try- 
ing to make an actor out of me," Lawrence 
laughs. "I gave him a hard time — but not 
intentionally." 

Welk's accordion specialty was "Valen- 
cia." For this, he appeared in full cos- 
tume, dressed as a Spanish matador. "Mom 
used to wind his sash on him," George 
Kelly recalls, "and Lawrence would stand 
there and go 'round and 'round. On stage, 
I would announce, 'And now I want you 
to meet the youngest, the best-looking, the 
finest, the most distinguished accordion- 
ist in America — Lawrence Welk!" 

Enthusiastic audiences (particularly, 
Kelly observes, the lady patrons) agreed 
with that glowing introduction. For four 
years, an increasingly popular Lawrence 
traveled with The Peerless Entertainers, 
grateful for all the experience and knowl- 
edge he could absorb . . . and touchingly 
appreciative of Mrs. Kelly's kindness and 
encouragement in helping him to use bet- 
ter English and to overcome some of the 
accent which now really troubled him. 

His public, however, seemed completely 
unaware of any such problems. "They 
were all eyes for Lawrence and his ac- 
cordion," Kelly smiles. "Throughout our 
tour of the Dakotas, Montana and Minne- 
sota, people followed us from show to 
show, until we got so far away they 
couldn't make it«— Lawrence always had 
crowds around him, and he made them 
all feel they were his friends." 

That same reaction was soon apparent 
in Yankton, South Dakota, as crowds 
jammed the small radio studio where Law- 
rence broadcast with his newly-formed, 
six-piece band. So many nurses from the 
hospital raved about him that attractive 
but skeptical Fern Renner, who was in 
training there, finally went along with 
them to the studio one day. But she re- 
mained the lone holdout against the mass 
adulation for Lawrence Welk for some 
time . . . almost until she married him. 

"When the broadcast was over, but be- 
fore we could leave the studio that day," 
Fern recalls, "Lawrence put down his ac- 
cordion and walked straight out into the 
audience to talk to us. He wanted me to 
go to dinner with him, but I got the im- 
pression he was conceited, and I didn't 
want to go. Finally, I agreed — if he'd take 
one of the other girls along." He was a 
perfect gentleman, but Fern Renner saw 
no future there: "I'd always felt traveling 
musicians were just like sailors — a girl 
in every port." 

However, since they shared the same 
religion, they met frequently in church 
and became better acquainted. Lawrence 
left South Dakota to tour with his band — 
and Fern went to Texas to work in a 
Dallas hospital as a laboratory technician 
and anesthetist . . . but fate still kept a 
friendly eye on the man who was meant 
to make so much happy, sparkling music 
for the world. 

Fern Renner just happened to be in 
Denver, Colorado, for a few days' vaca- 
tion . . . and she just happened to read 
in the newspapers that Lawrence and his 
band were playing there. She called him. 
And, the following day — while showing 
her the majestic scenery — he proposed. 

They were married, one April morning, 
in the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Sioux 
Falls, South Dakota . . . and left on a 
series of one-nighters which, in the 



opinion of Fern's husband, could have 
fractured a more fragile bride. Today, 
Lawrence pays tribute to the attractive 
woman who has shared in his career story: 
"She's been able to take it . . . all the 
way from hardships to later on, when 
things got better. Fern's a perfect wife, 
as well as a perfect mother." 

From the start, Fern Welk's calm cour- 
age and encouragement ... as a former 
nurse familiar with life and death, and 
with people and crises of all kinds . . . 
was always there to strengthen the confi- 
dence of a shy, uneducated North Da- 
kota farm boy who was moving up in 
his world of music — and increasingly sen- 
sitive to his own inadequacies. "You have 



nothing to worry about," Fern reassured 
him. "Just forget you didn't have those 
advantages. You don't need to worry." 
Wherever Welk played, people listened. 
But there were tough years, getting his 
music to enough of them. Years of weary- 
ing one-nighters ... of driving all night 
crosscountry ... of humid hotel rooms — 
sleeping with the sun. And of nightmare 
experiences, such as driving to a booking 
in Phoenix, Arizona — and finding the ball- 
room had closed: "We'd been driving for 
two days, from Quincy, Illinois, and we'd 
had nothing but trouble all the way," re- 
calls Chuck Coffee, a saxophone player 
who was then with Welk's band. "We'd 
had eighteen flats, getting there. Then we 



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8-5 



found the place had folded. Lawrence 
pawned his only ring, so the band could 
eat. Then he talked stockholders into re- 
opening the ballroom." 

Fern Welk has reasons of her own for 
remembering this situation in graphic de- 
tail. "We were on a spot," she under- 
states it simply. "We'd managed trans- 
portation for the boys, clear from the 
Middle West, and it was expensive. We'd 
counted on the Phoenix engagement . . . 
then the place was closed up. And it had 
been such a rough trip. We had no 
time . . . we'd traveled all through the 
night to get there." While her husband 
was persuading the stockholders to reopen 
their ballroom, Fern Welk went to bed — 
deathly ill. "I was three months' preg- 
nant, and I was feeling miserable." 

She quit the tour a few weeks before 
their first baby was born, going to Dallas 
to stay with two nurse friends, while 
Lawrence continued playing one-nighters. 
He was in Denver . . . the same city in 
which he'd proposed to Fern . . . when 
one of the nurses phoned to tell him he 
had a beautiful baby daughter. 

Shirley Welk was six weeks old before 
her enchanted father saw her. For a man 
with Lawrence's love for home and fam- 
ily, there were to be many personal sac- 
rifices during those first years he was 
making music. Many important family 
events he couldn't share. "Dad drove all 
night through the rain, trying to make my 
First Communion," his beautiful, dark- 
eyed Shirley remembers. "Then, when he 
got there, we were just coming out of the 
church. He was heartbroken." 

The family was then headquartering in 
Pittsburgh. Later, they moved to River 
Forest, just outside Chicago. His younger 
daughter Donna says, "I think Dad made 
my Communion — but not my Confirmation. 
He made my graduation — but not my 
eighth-grade. We were always so happy 
to see him . . . and always so sad when 
he had to leave again." Then irrepress- 
ible, teen-aged Donna laughs, "I'll never 
forget the time our younger brother Law- 
rence helped Dad pack. He was just three 
years old and, when nobody was looking, 
he put in one brown shoe and one black. 
When Dad got to that engagement, he 
really had some explaining to do!" 

However hectic or frantic conditions 
might be, the family usually spent their 
summers with Lawrence, when the school 
term was over. And sometimes condi- 
tions were hectic indeed. Shirley recalls 
the split-timing necessary when her father 
flew from Denver to Chicago, just in time 
for her high-school graduation: "We were 
all packed to go back on the train with 
him, and the 'City of Denver' was making 
a special stop at the next suburb— Oak 
Park — just to pick us up. As soon as the 
graduation ceremony was over, we threw 
our bags in the car, made a wild drive, 
and boarded the train . . . bound for 
Elitch's Gardens in Colorado." 

Music was Lawrence Welk's life-blood, 
therefore it was their way of life, too . . . 
something which Ludwig Welk himself — 
who made the initial investment in that 
music — had come to realize before he died. 
For Ludwig lived to see the beginning of 
his son's success . . . though, ironically, 
he died just as Lawrence was playing his 
first important band date, the Hotel St. 
Paul in Minnesota. But Ludwig had lived 
to see his son make a thriving business of 
his music. To know the pride his home 
town, Strasburg, had in him. And to be 
proud that his boy could contribute to the 
country which had been so generous to 
all of them. "Dad knew Lawrence was on 
i his way — that he was achieving — that was 
the important thing," says sister Eva, who 
was living with her parents then. 

But there were times, in those first days 

1 



of struggle, when Lawrence himself won- 
dered if he'd made the right decision in 
leaving his father's farm. With success 
increasingly in sight, there was still an- 
other battle to be won. Moving up into 
the world of music, playing to a more so- 
phisticated audience, there were occa- 
sions — such as an important "prestige" 
booking in Chicago — when Lawrence felt 
that his father had been right. He should 
have stayed with the land. With his lack 
of education, his inadequacies, what right 
did he have in this more glittering world? 
He had dreamed of playing this par- 
ticular booking — someday. But he was 
very discouraged when he opened there. 
"This was something he'd wanted so much, 
but they didn't want him to play the ac- 
cordion," Fern says simply. "They thought 
it wasn't dignified enough for the place. 
They didn't want him to shake his head 
in time with the music — that wasn't 'dig- 
nified enough,' either. But Lawrence loves 
the accordion, and it was already his 
trademark. And bobbing his head — that's 
as much a part of him as anything. To 
take all these things from him, well. . . ." 

Though Fern could tell that Lawrence 
was very worried about something, he 
would say nothing about what was trou- 
bling him during the first days of that 
engagement: "Lawrence never did want 
to worry me — he always felt somehow he 
should straighten things out for himself." 
But, one night, she awakened to find him 
sitting up in bed and gazing out the win- 
dow in an attitude of obvious despair. 

And, finally, he said, "I guess I'm just 
too much of a farmer. I guess I should 
have stayed on the farm." 

"You've done very well," his wife re- 
minded him. "Just because somebody is 
trying to change your ways ... I wouldn't 
let that affect me. This isn't the only 
place. There are many places that would 
be glad to have you." She spoke of the 
many other places he had played — always 
successfully. 

It was as true then as it is today. As 
Fern Welk says now, "He was a success 
everywhere he went. And, from the 
audience viewpoint, he was successful 
when he played that place, too!" For all 
the management's preconceived ideas, 
their "dignified" patrons wanted Welk and 
his accordion — and Lawrence bobbing his 
head in time with the beat. They kept 
him all summer, by public demand. 

Just as, later on, his public demanded 
Lawrence Welk across the nation — on 
television — when he came West and played 
the Aragon Ballroom and had a local TV 
show which captured them and blanked 
out all network opposition in Southern 
California. There was no place for bands 
on network television, the top brass had 
said. But ... in much the same way his 
father, Ludwig Welk, had homesteaded in 
North Dakota and proved that land rich 
and fruitful . . . Lawrence Welk staked a 
claim for bands on television — and pio- 
neered for the music that is the most pop- 
ular and beloved in America today. The 
music that reflects the heritage of the 
man who plays it . . . the language and 
rhythm of the good earth. 

In this month of July — with its day 
honoring freedom, when flags wave with 
a special meaning and purpose — a flag 
waves over a plot of land in Strasburg, 
North Dakota ... a park dedicated to 
Lawrence Welk, the farm boy who topk 
his gay polkas and music out into the 
world and won a nationwide audience 
with his sincerity and joy in playing that 
music. This month and every month — 
come Saturday, come Monday — on tele- 
vision screens across the land his father 
loved so much, Lawrence Welk brings to 
life the happiness and gratitude of Ludwig 
Welk . . . his thanks to America. 



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79 



(Continued from page 27) 
up to him and asked, "Aren't you Grace 
Sands' boy?" Just to give him his come- 
uppance and keep his feet on firm ground. 
Actually, there is little chance of suc- 
cess spoiling Tommy Sands. He has had 
his share of heartaches, and he has seen 
the darker side of success, too. Don't for- 
get he's been in show business most of 
his life. At eight, he walked into a radio 
station down in Shreveport, asked for a 
singing job and got it. That took spunk. 
At fifteen, when his voice was changing, 
a lot of people were going around saying 
Tommy was all washed up. Maybe he 
was — as a cute little boy in a cowboy suit, 
singing Western songs. But he had to 
learn how to take these knocks with the 
same calm, humility and good humor with 
which he took the applause. And he had 
to find new channels for his talent. 

That's what I'm trying to tell you all 
now. I want to make clear why I, his 
mother, think he'll go on to even greater 
success without getting a swelled head, or 
why he won't lose faith if the toboggan 
should happen to go down. 

My boy Tommy has character. Put just 
that way, I realize it sounds like a mother 
bragging. But people who know me will 
say that I'm as quick to point out Tommy's 
mistakes as I am to take notice of his 
good points. He does have character — and 
that, with God's help, will see him through. 

Coming home from This Is Your Life 
("Life"? — he's nineteen years old!), I no- 
ticed that he looked very thoughtful. I 
asked him why. This is more or less what 
he answered: "When Ralph Edwards was 
bringing all those people on stage and 
telling how they had helped me, I kept 
thinking to myself, But these are just a 
few outstanding ones. What about all the 
others? Uncle Charlie and Aunt Bert 
(who have passed on) — the friends like 
Dr. and Mrs. Shavin, Lynn Trosper, Dr. 
and Mrs. Moers and Betty, Harmie Smith, 
my teachers and so many others? 

"It keeps pounding in my head, Mama. 
Why should so many fine people have 
gone to so much trouble for me, encour- 
aging me, cheering me on when the going 
got real rough, keeping their faith in me 
so long — what have I done to deserve all 
that? Because, when these people did all 
that for me, they expected nothing in 
return — some of them probably didn't ever 
expect I'd make good. They didn't care. 
They did it out of friendship. Mama, I'm 
the luckiest fellow in the world." 

He means it, too. That I'll vouch for. 
In an age when parents and children 
seem to be so much at odds with each 
other, and there is so much talk about 
youngsters "rebelling," I feel Tommy and 
I have built up a good healthy friendship 
based on mutual respect and understand- 
ing. I've never forced my ways on him 
and I've tried to let him make his own 
mistakes. Because I believe in the quality 
of his character. 

I just used the word "respect." For 
reasons I can't understand, that seems to 
have gone out of style these days. Chil- 
dren are taught to treat their elders as 
equals. They call their parents — and even 
their grandparents — by their first names, 
and sometimes by their nicknames. I'm 
happy to say Tommy is not like that and 
never has been. When he was a child 
playing the guitar and singing on radio 
and television in Shreveport, Houston and 
Chicago, he had to work with older people, 
y performers with years of experience. I 
R tried to make it clear that he was to be 
treated as a small boy, not as an equal. 

And I did the same with Tommy. He 
always said "Mr." and "Miss." He even 
80 



My Sentimental Tommy 

called Biff Collie (only ten years his 
senior and as dear to him as a brother) 
"Mr. Collie" — that is, until last summer, 
when Biff visited Hollywood and stayed 
with us a while. 

Tommy has consideration, too. And this 
consideration hasn't been reserved for 
adults, either. Recently, a school chum 
from Houston came to town. Since our 
phone is unlisted, the boy called a mutual 
friend here and reached us that way. 
Tommy was delighted to see him and 
asked him along to Clime Stone's Home- 
town Jamboree, where he was to sing. 
After the show, Tommy was literally 
mobbed by the youngsters — mostly girls, 
I'm pleased to point out for the benefit of 
Tommy — who is so modest (thank good- 
ness!) that he's almost unconscious of his 
own physical charms — that, though he came 
out of the melee minus half a shirt and a 
number of buttons (this is not a pun), 
his only concern was for his friend, who'd 
got lost in the crowd. 

Tommy waited and, when the friend 
didn't appear, finally returned home. 
Later, the young man called to explain 
that he was afraid he'd have been in the 
way and had thumbed a ride back to his 
hotel. Tommy was terribly upset: "What 
does he mean, 'in the way'? What kind of 
friend does he take me for? I was so glad 
to see him, and here we've had hardly a 
few words with each other. I'm going to 
call him back and apologize." He did, and 
wouldn't hang up until his friend swore 
he was not hurt, that he understood 
Tommy's predicament perfectly and would 
be around in the morning for a long talk. 

This is a good place for me to inject a 
warning. In spite of "character," my boy 
Tommy is far from growing wings and a 
halo. He makes mistakes and some of 
them are sure- enough whoppers. For in- 
stance, horseback riding. It's one of his 
favorite sports, though he hasn't had much 
time for it lately. But, when he was a 
boy in Louisiana and just learning to ride, 
he started showing off. One of my friends 
said, "Grace, do tell him to stop that 
clowning." 

I said, "I don't have to tell him — the 
horse will." Well, just then the horse 
stopped short and pitched Tommy head 
over heels into a mess of briar. Nowa- 
days, when he gets into a mood and seems 
ready to act up a little (oh, yes, he has 
his moments), I just look him in the eye 
and say, "Tommy, I don't have to tell 
you — the horse will." 

On the subject of mistakes: When 
Tommy decided to leave Lamar High 
School in Houston to take a disc- jockey 
job in Shreveport, I felt it was a mis- 



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tells about Sullivan's travels! 



RICKY NELSON 

Ozzie and Harriet's singing son! 

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take. I thought he was being headstrong. 
And I argued the issue with him, though 
I left all decisions open for him to make. 

We talked it over several times. My 
side of it ran like this: "You've had little 
enough fun, as it is," I pointed out. "You've 
been working since you were eight. Now 
you want to quit school, just a few months 
before graduation, to take this deejay job. 
Why not get your diploma, go to college 
and have a little fun while completing 
your education? There'll be other jobs.'' 

But Tommy was set on going. "Maybe 
I missed out on some of the games other 
boys play," he reasoned, "but I've had 
plenty of fun. Playing the guitar and 
singing, acting, studying music and 
theater — all of that was fun. For me, the 
best kind of fun. As for school, I promise 
you that someday I'll finish my educa- 
tion — but I can't miss this chance. It 
might lead to something big." 

I even called his principal, Mr. Wright 
He, too, spoke to Tommy. That afternoon. 
Tommy came home. He looked confused 
and miserable. Finally, he said, "Mama, 
there's only one thing that can stop me 
from taking that job. If you order me 
not to go, I'll give in and finish school." 

It was one of the hardest decisions I 
ever had to make. I was tempted to play 
the heavy-handed mother and say, "All 
right, I order you to finish school." But 
that would have meant breaking a rule of 
conduct I had always preached to him. It 
would have meant that all my words about 
independence of mind and learning by his 
own mistakes were false. I said, "Tommy, 
I won't go back on what I've taught you. 
You know I'd like you to get an education, 
and you know why. But it's your decision 
to make, for good or bad. Follow your 
conscience." 

li still feel he should have gone to col- 
lege. And I know that he has come to feel 
it, too. But who can say that he made 
this sacrifice for nothing? By taking that 
job, he was able to save enough money 
for our trip to Hollywood. And it was in 
Hollywood that he got his big break. If, 
in the years ahead, he comes to me and 
asks, "Would I have done better the other 
way?" — I honestly don't know what I'll 
answer. Sometimes, you must make great 
sacrifices to get your heart's desire. As 
Browning says, "A man's reach should 
exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" 

Tommy is no angel, by far. For one thing, 
he's the most "forgetfulest" boy. Right 
at this time, it's no wonder. In the space 
of a few months, he's had to rehearse the 
Steve Allen and Jack Benny shows, ap- 
pear twice on the Kraft Television Theater, 
several times with Tennessee Ernie Ford, 
and the weekly Cliffie Stone show. Then 
he's had to cut a number of new records, 
give dozens of interviews, and go here, 
there and the other place for the sake of 
his career. Naturally, he's forgetful. He'd 
have to be one of those Univac machines 
not to be forgetful. 

The fact is, however, that he has always 
been like that. When he was just a teen- 
ager, working as a disc jockey for KCIJ 
in Shreveport, the manager of the station 
put up two signs just for Tommy's benefit, 
because he was the one who closed up 
shop at night. The first sign read: 
"Tommy! Shut Off All Lights!" Then, on 
the door our boy had to pass going out, 
was the other sign: "Tommy! Shut Off 
Lights, Please!" 

The night he was to leave Hollywood 
for New York, to go on the Steve Allen 
show, he arrived home after six. The 
train was to leave at eight. "Where were 
you?" I asked, "And where are the slacks 
and jackets you were to pick up at the 



cleaner's?" After some hemming and 
hawing, the truth came out. He'd been 
walking along the street, daydreaming, 
and finally day-dreamed his way into a 
movie. By the time he got out, the cleaner 
was closed. So off he went to New YoFk 
with a wardrobe that would have shamed 
anyone but Tommy. He took it all very 
casually and bought himself a new suit 
in New York. 

This is an old story, of course. He has 
always been casual with clothes. He 
favors sports attire. But, though casual, 
he's no faddist. Nor is he the type who 
protests against the world by wearing 
outlandish duds. When the occasion calls 
for it, he can get quite dressy. At the 
Academy Awards, when he sang "Friendly 
Persuasion," he wore a full dress suit — 
and did it with such an air, you'd think 
he'd been wearing one all his life. 

It's funny, but I've learned that publicity 
works two ways. I've given out a good 
many statements by now, on Tommy and 
our struggles together and how it feels . . . 
et cetera, et cetera. But I've also found 
out a few things I didn't know about 
Tommy, while reading stories about him. 
For example, I had never realized he was 
such a parsley addict. He must have de- 
veloped a taste for it in Louisiana, where 
we always had some growing. According 
to what I read, he would just pick a sprig 
from the field, wash it and eat it. I sup- 
pose I never knew this because I'm not 
one to take cooking seriously. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas on the farm 
were always very dear to Tommy as a boy. 
My Aunt Bert was a genius at cooking 
and would whip up batches of cookies and 
candies. Tommy was the best "spoon- 
and pot-licker" for miles around. He 
often kids me on this score. "You sure 
didn't inherit Aunt Bert's talent for cook- 
ing," he tells me. It's true, you know. 
Cooking is not one of my gifts. "One 
good thing, son," I always tell him, "your 
wife will never have to listen to that 
old saw, 'Why can't you cook like my 
mother? ' " 

Did I say "wife"? Well, it's a little soon 
for it, although I have a hunch my boy 
will marry young. And I'm all for it. 
Some of my friends are sure I'll be sorry 
I said this. I don't agree, but I know 
what's in their minds. Tommy's father 
was a pianist who had to travel about a 
great deal in order to earn his living. My 
older boy Edward, twelve years Tommy's 
senior, was almost grown when Tommy 
was born. Tommy and I were left alone 
a great deal and had to depend on one 
another for company for years. 

After his father and I divorced, this 
was intensified. Tommy and I shared the 
good times and the bad. We both had to 
work to keep things going. It gave Tommy 
a deep sense of responsibility at an early 
age. We both had to make adjustments 
and learned to be tolerant of each other. 
We simply couldn't afford to squabble or 
risk doing things that would upset the 
serenity of the home we'd made for our- 
selves. We managed to stay happy. 

Now, it would only be natural, in these 
circumstances, for some women to resent 
anything breaking up such a fine arrange- 
ment. But my mind is very clear on this 
point. Not only won't I resent my boy 
marrying — I'll be thrilled for both him 
and me. That doesn't mean I won't miss 
the old cozy relationship. I'll miss it, and 
I'm sure Tommy will, too. 

But, if a boy is to become a real man, 
he must step out into the world, choose 
a wife, and start a family of his own. He 
shouldn't lean on his mother and she 
shouldn't lean on him. I've always treas- 
ured my independence and I think Tommy 
will enjoy that freedom, too. And the 
same is true of Tommy's future wife, 
whoever she may be — I'm sure she'll love 



me more for wanting my son to enjoy 
the privacy of her love in their own home. 
I've always had a yearning to travel. 
After Tommy is twenty-one, I hope to be 
able to do this. Then I'd like to go back 
to Houston and Greenwood for a while, 
to see old friends and revisit the old 
well-loved and well-remembered places. 
Hollywood is a fascinating city, and, of 
course, I will be eternally grateful to it 
for the way it has opened its heart to my 
son. I find life here somewhat hectic, but, 
for the next couple of years, I'll stick 
around — if only to act as an alarm clock. 
Tommy is a sound sleeper and needs a 
good hard shake to get him up. 

1 said Tommy might marry early. Not 
that he doesn't like adventure, but I think 
he likes security even better. If he does 
marry young, I'm banking on his character. 
It made him a good son; it will make him 
a good husband and father. 

Because of his hit record, "Teen-Age 
Crush," which sold over a million copies, 
and the quality of his new album, "Steady 
Date," many of his fans (I hear thousands 
of fan clubs are springing up all over) 
think of Tommy primarily as a singer. 
There are also lots of fans who know of 
his background as a deejay, and think he 
will turn out to be the pilot of a popular 
variety show, on the order of Ernie Ford, 
Garry Moore, Bob Crosby — or, perhaps, 
even Steve Allen, Sullivan or Godfrey. It 
would be grand if such a thing did happen. 

But my own opinion is that Tommy's 
best love is serious acting. Singing and 
entertaining is a second choice. This has 
been true since he did a series of sketches 
on TV in Chicago called Lady Of The 
Mountain. He had a small opportunity 
for acting and, when the series ended, he 
felt let down. But he returned to singing 
as a means of earning his living until an- 
other opportunity came his way. This 
happened in Houston when he was twelve. 
He got his wish and appeared with the 
Alley Theater's production of David West- 
heimer's "Magic Fallacy." 

It had a fine run. After opening night, 
Tommy told me, "Mama, I'm crazy about 
entertaining — singing, guitar playing, kid- 
ding around, ad libbing. All that's great 
fun and it pays well. But there's nothing 
to compare with acting. I can't tell you 
what a thrill it is to really get into a part, 
really feel it," he glowed, "and know it is 
going across the footlights to the folks 
out there, making them laugh or cry. 
Acting's going to be my fife, Mama." 

One of the greatest moments in both 
our fives was his homecoming after his 
first national triumph — the Kraft TV 
Theater production of "The Singin' Idol." 
The response had been immediate and 
terrific. We fell into each other's arms 
and cried like children. We both knew 
what it meant for him, aside from success. 
It had proved he was an actor. A new 
highway was opening up for him. "The 
only thing lacking was you, Mama," he 
said. "Next trip to New York, you must 
come along." 

"You know I don't like to do that," I 
protested. "Your career is your own busi- 
ness and I've never interfered or pushed 
into the front row. Besides, why do you 
need me there?" 

His grin turned mischievous and he 
said, "Because someone's got to wake me 
up in the morning." 

Well, I don't mind admitting, I like 
Tommy Sands, and, in a sneaky sort of 
way, I even like being just "Tommy's 
mother." He's a long trip from being per- 
fect. But he's a nice boy with a serious 
purpose in life. He may not be another 
Caruso, but he certainly is a gifted young 
actor with his own special knack for put- 
ting over a song. 

And let's face it — after all, he is my boy! 



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Are We Afraid of Our Teen- Age Kids? 



(Continued from page 30) 
crowded quarters of a Brooklyn tenement, 
humorist (and humanitarian) Levenson 
knows, from close and intimate contact 
with kids, how it is with them, what they 
want, what they need and do not need, 
what makes them tick. As a teacher in 
New York high schools for ten years, he 
has the understanding which only such an 
experience can give of teen-age — and par- 
ent — problems. As the father of a four- 
teen-year-old son and a four-year-old 
daughter, he also has an understanding 
of the relationship — more delicate and diffi- 
cult than any other — between parent and 
child. 

And he has compassion. Compassion for 
the teen-age children we call "delinquent." 
Compassion for the parents, who are afraid 
of them. . . . 

"We are afraid of them," Sam says, "be- 
cause these kids are organized, the parents 
are not. Parents have no union. The kids 
have. You say to your teen-age son, 'I 
do not want that you should go to the 
movies on Sunday.' And you are told, 
'Louie's father lets him go, and Jakie's 
and Frankie's' — and so on down a list as 
long as the letters of the alphabet. You 
tell your teen-age daughter, You are too 
young to smoke.' And she tells you, 
'Sadie does it, and Frieda and Ruth and 
Naomi. . . .' Teenagers come to you in a 
group, as it were, and say to you, 'Look, 
this is what we want to do.' They are 
members of a union thousands strong. We 
the parents, a father and mother, are two 
alone. Under pressure of this organized 
resistance to parental discipline, the par- 
ent — outnumbered — gives in. 

"The records released these days have 
an influence on teenagers. Their favorite 
recording stars influence their choice of 
clothes and accessories — Elvis Presley hats 
and slave bracelets, shirts and ties. To 
some, the recordings also sell the idea 
that their parents do not understand them. 
Take the lyrics of one of the currently 
popular songs — 'only a teen-age crush,' it 
goes, or something like that. 'Only a teen- 
age crush' is, presumably, the opinion of 
the poor schnook of a parent . . . whereas 
we, the implication follows, know better. 
And who is "We"? "We" is the record 
industry, which, as an indirect result of 
releasing such records — encourages these 
kids (the greatest record-buying group in 
the world) to believe that only such re- 
cording artists as, say, Presley, Tommy 
Sands, Pat Boone, can give them the sym- 
pathy and understanding and emotional 
release they do not get, cannot get — don't 
be silly — at home. 

"Psychiatrists are also guilty of bring- 
ing on this permissiveness, or lack of dis- 
cipline, on the part of the parent," Sam 
continues. "Let the child be free, let him 
express himself, do what he wants to do, 
don't frustrate him, make him happy, 
keep him happy, because if you don't . . . .' 
And the parents — terrified by the implied 
threat to the child who is not kept happy 
by being allowed to do what he wants to 
do — let him do what he wants to do. This 
is chaos, this is nothing, this is not free- 
dom — which only comes through discipline. 
This is anarchy which can lead to a big 
fat zero. 

"I've taught my son, and I'm teaching my 
daughter," says Sam, "that I don't have to 
make them happy. That's not my respon- 
sibility. I have to make them good re- 
sponsible citizens — and, if they are, hap- 
piness will come. 

"How do you go about the business 
of making them good responsible citizens? 
By imposing rules — children need rules 
like they need vitamins and sunshine — 
and by having the guts to enforce them. 



By not being afraid to precipitate a 'scene.' 
As parents know," Sam laughs, "everything 
precipitates a scene. The allowance you 
give them is not enough, the car they're 
not allowed to drive — so we have the 
scene. We raise our voices, my son Con- 
rad and I. He slams doors, I slam doors. 
My children don't have to love me every 
minute — the minute they dislike me may 
be the one that will pay off. In the crisis 
between children and parents, better the 
children should cry — remember this — than 
the parents. Better the scene in the home 
than in a courtroom, which spells disaster. 
'Better to look at me,' my father used to 
say, 'than at a judge.' If your child has 
never been really angry at you, you have 
never been a parent. You have not taught 
him to recognize — and submit to — au- 
thority. 

"Who is authority? It is the answer to 
this question which the so-called 'juvenile 
delinquents' have not got. We, the parents, 
have to give it to them — as, in our home, 
it was given my sister and brothers and 
me. Rich in ceremonial tradition, the 
candles on the table, the Jewish holidays 
kept, God lived in our house. He did. There 
was no question of it. Because He is the 
Supreme Being, God, we knew, is the 
Supreme Authority. No question but what 
parents — who are put here by God to 
protect us and to teach us — are given 
authority by God and must be obeyed. 
Parents were once children. They have 
lived once. They know. 

"Any delinquency, however slight, on 
the part of any one of us," Sam laughs, 
"and its consequences were carried to the 
ultimate! Smoking a cigarette, when we 
were thought too young to smoke, must 
lead to Sing Sing, to the death house. If 
he was fresh to a teacher, Jovian bolts 
were let loose at the culprit's head. 'You 
don't appreciate America,' my father would 
thunder. 'The Government pays teachers 
to educate you. You are not grateful. 
You are not a good American. You are 
subversive!' 

"In the eyes of our parents, the teacher 
was always right — whether she was right 
or wrong. Nowadays, you hear it said 
that a teacher is 'a schnook who couldn't 
make good in business.' I have heard 
parents say of a teacher, who punished a 
child deserving of punishment, "That 
crackpot!' This is teaching respect for 
authority? 

"Nowadays, we're told that giving a 
child an allowance teaches him the value 
of money. When the eight of us were 
kids," Sam recalls, "we knew the value 
of money before we knew how to walk. 
With us, it was real value. For a penny, 
we got a paraffin whistle. We blew on it 
all week — and, on Sunday, we ate it. 
Today's child can't get by on less than 
several dollars for a show and after-show 
snack, and you're lucky if you're not also 
billed for a taxicab fare. 

" 'You want the good things in life,' my 
father used to say, 'you work for them. 
If you can't make good here in America, 
you're no damn good.' So we worked in 
sweatshops, anything to make a dollar. My 
brother, now a doctor, worked in a post 
office nights and studied medicine all day. 
Another brother, a lawyer, got his shingle 
by sweating for it. I went through col- 
lege on the two hundred dollars I earned 
summers, giving monologues. 

"You hear it said that most of the teen- 
age trouble-makers are underprivileged 
kids who come from 'wretched tenements' 
in which they are unhappy, against which 
they rebel. I don't believe that physical 
environment in itself makes for unhappi- 
ness — or for happiness. I don't believe 
it's the tenement that's 'wretched,' but the 



I 






itl 

>!3. 



parents. It's not the cracks in the walls 
that split the personalities of these kids, 
but the cracks in the parents. You give 
me two loving, devoted parents, and a 
child never feels underprivileged. You 
give me two wise parents with the guts 
to say 'no,' and the child — whether from a 
Hester Street slum or a Park Avenue 
penthouse — has a better than even chance 
of making good and of being good. 

''Nobody in the world is going to be as 
kind and indulgent to a kid as a kind and 
indulgent parent is," Sam emphasizes, "so 
why give him a false notion of what the 
world is? Why not teach him that noth- 
ing is easy? Why not open his eyes to 
the fact that nobody is going to assume 
his responsibilities and forgive him his 
sins? 

"You have to begin early. When our 
little Emily calls down to us, 'Come up and 
dress me, I can't dress myself!' — I call back, 
'Stay in your room until you are dressed!' 
Sure, the left shoe is on the right foot, 
when she comes down, but you never 
saw such a happy kid in your life, such 
pride that shines. I make her pick up 
her toys. Make her do it. Who, perhaps, 
will do her picking up for her when she 
is thirty? 

"My boy wants to be independent. Soon 
now, he is going to Miami to visit his 
maternal grandparents. 'Look, my son,' 
I have told him, 'this is the first time on 
your own. I am giving you money. I 
want you to account to me for every cent 
you spend; whom you tipped and how 
much, how much you spent for each meal. 
Then you will prove to me that you can be 
trusted with money, with which we must 
always be trustworthy. Be respectful to 
people,' I told him. 'To the porter on your 
car, to the steward in the dining-car, to 
your fellow passengers, to your grandma 
and grandpa.' 

"You can't repeat the maxims of mor- 
ality too often," Sam believes. "In teach- 
ing, repetition is the necessary thing. 
You must treat older people with re- 
spect. You must treat money with re- 
spect.' Say these things to them over and 
over, then over again. Urge them. Urge 
them. 

"My son's allowance is a dollar a week. 
He 'can't get along on that.' 'So you must 
earn,' I tell him. Now, once a week, he 
washes my car. On Saturday nights, he 
tapes my TV show, labels it and puts it on 
the shelf. So he earns a dollar a week to 
add to the one that is given him. 

"A thing I'm strong on — I like children 
working. A job is one of the greatest 
therapies in the world. Summertimes, any 
time they have off, let the kids work. 
Don't shelter them from work. Work is 
dignified. Work is good. Let them work 
in gas stations, sell papers, sell ice, dig 
ditches. I am glad, when I see my son's 
hands dirty from work. 

"Homework," Sam adds, "is not taken 
for granted in our house. 'What is your 
homework?' I ask. 'Have you any prob- 
lems?' If I feel Conrad isn't reading 
enough, I tell him, 'Watch all the TV you 
want, but make your time to read.' 

"By the way," Sam laughs, "I am not 
inclined to believe that the Presley craze, 
which agitates many parents, does teen- 
agers of either sex any real harm. It will 
leave no wound. What it does do, how- 
ever, is waste their time by taking them 
away from the better things in life, such 
as reading and outdoor activities and de- 



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veloping the talents that are their own. 

"I insisted that my son play a musical 
instrument. 'Music,' I told him, 'is some- 
thing you live with all your life.' We 
tried him on three instruments without 
success. The fourth instrument, the guitar, 
he took to and gets great pleasure from. 
'Don't force the child,' you are told. Don't 
force him, and you've got an unforced idiot. 
You have got to discover the ability of the 
child or help him to discover it. 

"I don't mind hounding my son. I don't 
mind getting angry. Kids must know that 
people get angry in this world. If my son 
looks sloppy, he hears about it. I was the 
first one to take a stand against teenagers 
wearing beat-up old blue jeans and 
grubby shoes to school. I mentioned it on 
TV, wrote about it in the newspaper. 
What is this, I said — of a group of teen- 
agers at their desks — a hike or a school- 
room? The way they look, I said, they'll 
break windows next. Boys should wear 
ties and clean shirts and shined shoes to 
school, with their hair brushed, their 
fingernails clean. This is self-respect, as 
well as respect for the teacher. This isn't 
fashionable? What is fashionable about 
dirt? 

"Recently, I visited a high school in Bay- 
side, Long Island, and there saw the best 
behaved group I have seen in my later 
life. When the principal entered the room, 
the class stood up. When they sang the 
national anthem, they knew the words. 
Too many school children are indifferent 
when they sing the national anthem. They 
fumble the words. Too often, also, when 
the bell rings for recess, the kids don't 
wait for the teacher to dismiss them — such 
is the stampede, you'd think a fire had 
broken out! This class waited until the 
teacher dismissed them, before they left 
the room. I saw them pay this respect 
and it was a delight to see. These may 
seem to be trivial things, but the total 
effect on the teen-age boy and girl is the 
exact opposite of the word trivial. 

"I do not believe in teen-age kids leav- 
ing the school premises during the lunch 
hour. I have forbidden my son to do so. 
T have seen some of the kids that hang 
around the candy store in the neighbor- 
hood,' I told him, 'and they look like 
the type that will not do you any good.' 
To this, there was so much heated protest 
— 'Louie goes off the premises, and Jakie, 
and Izzy,' and on through the alphabet 
again — that I went down to discuss the 
matter with the school principal. 'I am 
glad you ask about this,' the principal said. 
'I wish more parents would come down and 
do the same. Only recently, a man was 
caught selling dope to some of the kids in 
the candy store.' My kid is no smarter 
than anyone else. But, when he came in- 
to the principal's office and was told what 
I had just been told, he got smart. He 
hasn't asked to leave the premises again. 

"He can't just disappear after school, 
either," Sam adds. "If you are detained 
anywhere, you must call the home," he is 
told "and tell where you are." We are old- 
fashioned, my wife and I. When the boy 
is going out of a Saturday or Sunday, 
Where are you going, we want to know, 
when will you be back? And I am not too 
proud to go and see for myself whether 
or not he is where he has said he will be. 

"You know what my mother's attitude 
was toward raising children? She used to 
say to my father, 'Go outside and see what 
Sammy's doing and tell him to stop.' It 
has been handed down to me, this attitude. 
Don't trust your kids too much. Kids will 
lie. And the faster you call a he a lie, the 
better for the kids. Besides, you don't 
know who's been working on them dur- 
ing the afternoon. 

"I don't believe in trusting a party of 
teenagers alone," says Sam. "I believe in 




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supervision. 'You don't trust me!' the 
teenager cries, outraged. To which the 
answer is: 'I don't know the other kids.' 
Parents have fallen for this 'Don't intrude' 
philosophy propagated by the teenagers. 
So they go away, leaving a party of teen- 
agers in a house with cigarettes, liquor, 
couches, bedrooms. You do this — you're 
asking for it! 

"We have to have restrictions. We're all 
sinners. Because we are, we, as parents, 
have to impose restrictions and see to it 
that they are kept. Eternal vigilance 
should be the parents' watchword. You 
cannot trust to chance. 

"I don't believe in boys of sixteen hav- 
ing cars of their own. When they have, 
how do you ever know where they are? 
I have heard my son tell his friends, 'My 
father says I can't have a car until I'm 
twenty-one.' I may break down a little 
sooner than that," Sam smiles, "but very 
little. 

"I don't believe in twelve-year-old girls 
wearing lipsticks — or falsies. I was re- 
cently shocked to learn that a lot of parents 
buy falsies for little girls of twelve — 'be- 
cause they don't look well enough to go 
out otherwise.' 

"I don't believe, I definitely do not be- 
lieve," Sam stresses, "in teenagers going 
steady. I believe parents should have the 
guts to tell their teen-age girls and boys, 
'You can't go steady.' When explaining to 
teenagers why they can't go steady, par- 
ents should use the words 'virginity' and 
'pregnancy,' and not be afraid of them. 
They should drum into the ear of the teen- 
age girl that the boy who takes advantage 
of her isn't going to marry her. He isn't. 
He is still looking for a virgin. 

"Going steady is a natural thing, but 
that doesn't make it good. Mating is a 
natural thing, too, but there are conse- 
quences. We are a civilized people. There 
are taboos. 

"Apart from the fact that kids who go 
steady neglect their school work, can't 
concentrate on their school work, the 
emotional upheaval caused by going 
steady is very taxing on a kid — particularly 
a girl — very taxing. Petting today, parents 
must realize, is not what it was thirty 
years ago. To use a little slogan I created 
for myself, 'Dating is getting confused 
with mating.' And the longer a boy and 
girl go steady, isolate themselves from 
the group, the greater the curiosity, the 



opportunity — and the temptation. And the 
more serious the girl gets, the bigger the 
flop she's going to take, the deeper the 
bruise she's going to get. It's a danger- 
ous business. Statistics prove that a prosti- 
tute is one who got smacked down early in 
life — and from that time on, has thought 
of love as something cheap enough to sell. 
The kids who go steady run the risk of 
getting hurt bad. That's the danger. 

"So what can we do? We can encourage 
group activities," Sam answers himself. 
"The church should use every facility for 
getting groups of teenagers together. At 
home, there should always be an extra 
place or two at the table, as there is in 
our home. Teenagers must be made to 
feel that their friends are welcome. Above 
all, we must be honest with them. And 
unafraid. When a teen-age daughter tells 
us, 'I love him,' we can say, 'Yes, you 
do — now.' She may insist, 'I always will.' 
Then we must tell her that she is too 
young to say, 'This is my man.' That she 
will be in love and out of love again and 
again and again. Repeat it. Urge it. Urge 
it. If we get nowhere, we may say, 'Go 
out with him then, but go out with others, 
too, please.' This sometimes works. 

"If parents were organized, as the kids 
are organized, if parents should have a 
union such as the kids have, how rela- 
tively simple it would be!" Sam concludes. 
"If parents living in the same neighbor- 
hood, parents whose children go to the 
same school, would agree on how to 
handle the problems we have discussed, 
agree on how many nights a week the 
kids are permitted to date, on the hour 
they must be in, on the age at which they 
are permitted to smoke, to take a cock- 
tail, to go steady — if we could come to 
them in a group and say, 'Look, this is 
what we want you to do' — well," Sam 
laughs, "we might get somewhere. We 
would not be outnumbered. The pressure 
would be equalized. We would not be 
afraid — nor would we have anything much 
to be afraid of, I dare say. Parents of teen- 
agers, unite!" 

Off TV, as on, Sam Levenson laughs as 
he talks. He laughs as he talks about 
teenagers and parents and their problems, 
too. But, in the laughter, you can hear 
the heartbeat, the deep concern of a man 
who cares about the future of the human 
race— and dares to believe that some- 
thing constructive can be done about it. 



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New Hot Singers of 1957 



(Continued from page 49) 
stuff I didn't learn then, back in Dumas." 

Buddy Knox, son of Mr. and Mrs. Lester 
Knox, was born in Happy, Texas, in 1933, 
and spent his childhood on a ranch. He 
was a star rodeo rider and had leads in 
class plays. Like Jim and Don, he won 
letters and honors in football and basket- 
ball. 

Dave Alldred of Lubbock, Texas, did 
not — "They used me for the football." 
His father, now dead, taught him to play 
drums. "He rigged up his tom-tom to be 
my first bass drum." 

Their combo materialized at West Texas 
State College. Buddy's job in the speech 
department was helpful. Nights, they 
turned the whole building into an echo 
chamber. Such experimenting led to their 
hits. Dave says, "My drum was a paper 
box stuffed with cotton. We heard that 
a major record company later put two 
drummers to work for a week trying to 
find how we made that sound." 

Following their Broadway triumph, they 
risked being one-hit wonders — for Buddy, 
who had earned his second lieutenant's 
commission in R.O.T.C., was called up for 
a six-month tour of duty. They met the 
problem by going into concentrated re- 
cording sessions. "We cut enough plat- 
ters to last until Buddy gets back," Dave 
explains. The Rhythm Orchids are show- 
ing the vigor and strength of a spiny 
Texas cactus. They should continue to 
hold their own in the galaxy of new stars. 

In contrast to the Texans — who came, 
recording-wise, from nowhere — Tab Hun- 
ter came from headlines and Hollywood, 
an extremely slippery springboard from 
which to launch a new career. "To lay a 
bomb," as they say in music business, 
would be conspicuous and dangerous to 
his motion-picture status. 

And there were those in Hollywood 
who would have enjoyed seeing Tab flop. 
Irked with being cast as the boy next 
door, he was becoming troublesome. His 
noisy protests that he could act, coupled 
with a habit of blowing up on set, had led 
some to call him "Mr. No Talent." Tab 
sing? Heard any other good jokes lately? 

But Randy Wood, head of Dot Records, 
who boosted his little independent studio 
into a multi-million business before merg- 
ing it with Paramount, is no man to take 
ready-made opinions. If Tab wanted to 
cut wax, Wood was extremely willing. 

To anyone who has studied the story of 
25-year-old Tab Hunter, the resulting hits 
should have been no surprise, for Tab has 
always driven hard to get what he wanted. 
Born Arthur Gellen in New York City, he 
grew up in Long Beach, California. His 
mother worked as a physiotherapist to 
support her two sons. Tab, when in St. 
John's Military Academy, learned to ride. 
(To pay for this expensive sport, he jerked 
soda, delivered parcels, ushered in a 
theater.) He won cups and ribbons. 

When he got a crush on Sonja Henie, he 
felt he, too, must skate well. Again, he 
worked at odd jobs and won titles. When, 
at 15, he enlisted in the Coast Guard and 
was stationed in Groton, Connecticut, he 
turned champ weekend commuter. His 
objective: Broadway. He saw all the 
shows and decided to be an actor. 

The driving beat of rock 'n' roll was 
made to order for Tab. His intensity 
throbbed through to make his version of 
"Young Love" a topper. Scoffers were 
willing to concede him a freak hit. Tab 
answered with "Ninety-Nine Ways." For 
a time, both were high in the charts. 

Hollywood paid him the compliment of 
envy and imitation. Variety reported he 



had started a new trend, and noted, "Cur- 
rent disc market is apparently wide open 
for names not primarily known as singers." 
"Mr. No Talent" had become, most em- 
phatically, "Mr. Double Talent." 

With Dean Jones, it was his voice which 
won him his movie contract. And, if 
M-G-M plans materialize, he'll be tomor- 
row's Nelson Eddy, playing the romantic 
lead in musical pictures. 

Born in Decatur, Alabama, he was a 
high-school freshman when his voice de- 
veloped into a full, rich baritone. For his 
own enjoyment and that of his listeners, 
Dean sang at school and church programs. 
At 17, the handsome six-footer became 
president of the Methodist Church Youth 
Organization in North Alabama. For a 
time he wondered if he had "a call," and 
took over the pulpit of a church which 
had no minister. 

Torn between his desire to go into the 
church and his wish to act, he enrolled at 
Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky. 
Later, Navy service swung the balance. 
Stationed at San Diego, he worked on 
service TV shows and won amateur com- 
petitions. When his tour of duty was over, 
he was knee-deep in show business. 
M-G-M, on signing him, made him the 
first of their players to be permitted to 
appear on network television. To popu- 
larize him as a star, he will make eight 
NBC- TV appearances, six of them on the 
Steve Alien Show. On M-G-M recordings, 
he sings with a sincere warmth. Recent 
discs are "The Gypsy in My Soul" and 
"Young and In Love." 

Dean finds his personal inspiration in a 
happy family. He married "Miss San 
Diego" — Mae Entwisle — in 1952, and they 
have two young children. 

Movies, TV and recording dates will 
make 1957 an important year for Dean 
Jones. Ready to claim a well-starred fu- 
ture, the Decatur, Alabama lad is one to 
watch. 

South Philadelphia seems to have be- 
come a special sort of nursery for singers 
and song writers. To the names of Eddie 
Fisher, Johnny Grande of Bill Haley's 
Comets, Mario Lanza, Joe Valino, Frankie 
Lester and Dick Lee, you can now add one 
spectacular newcomer, Charlie Gracie, and 
one dark horse, Eddie Dano. 

Charlie Gracie, young though he is, has 
been in show business long enough to 
take applause and autographs in his stride. 
But his eyes popped when he saw this 
year's first-quarter royalty check. "I 
darn near fainted," he says. "How could 
there be so much money?" 

Charlie's private money-mill was pow- 
ered by two recordings. He wrote "Ninety- 
Nine Ways" and recorded it, too. Tab 
Hunter's "cover" was the big click, but 
Charlie raked in royalties. Then, shortly, 
Charlie's singing topped his own song. His 
Cameo platter of "Butterfly" replaced 
"Ninety-Nine Ways" at the top of the 
charts. "It just took off," Charlie says. 

It was a high triumph, for Charlie in- 
herited his desire to entertain from his 
father. Sam Gracie, whose performing 
career was blocked by the Depression, 
taught Charlie to play and sing. Then 
Pops Whiteman came along with his TV 
teen show, out of Philadelphia, and Charlie 
won it five times. He turned down college 
scholarships to concentrate on show busi- 
ness. "Being on Ed Sullivan's show was 
most exciting," he says. "I was scared stiff 
inside, but it was good for me." 

Home in the old neighborhood, Charlie 
is still one of the gang. He likes sports 
clothes — "I'll bet I've got ten red shirts" — 
but also likes to "dress up and go formal." 



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He hopes to buy a new house for his 
family and eventually one for himself. 
"I'm not ready to get serious yet, but 
when I do, I want a home-type girl. I'm 
home so seldom that, when I am, I want 
a real home waiting for me." 

The second South Philadelphia singer, 
Eddie Dano, has the voice, the ambition, 
the personality to score a big hit, once 
he finds the right song. He was discov- 
ered, of all places, working in the cata- 
logue department of RCA Victor in New 
York, during a Christmas party. "Every- 
one was singing," says Eddie, "and, when 
they asked me to, I sounded off. I love 
to sing. It didn't matter to me there was 
no piano, no music, no nothing." 

Luck hit, just like in the movies. Manny 
Sachs, then head of the recording com- 
pany, drifted by. Had it been the movies, 
Mr. Sachs would have rushed Eddie right 
down to a studio and shouted for engi- 
neers. In real life, the process is slower. 
He advised Eddie to study and to play 
club dates to get the feel of an audience. 
Last fall, they had a Vik contract ready 
for him. He has been on the Don McNeill, 
Robert Q. Lewis and Robert Montgomery 
shows. He's due for a new record release 
soon. Says Eddie, "I sure could use a hit. 
My dad, who used to drive a taxi, now has 
arthritis and can't work. I'm sole sup- 
port of the family. But I'm going to get 
there. Every club date I play teaches me 
that much more." Bunny Fisher, Eddie 
Fisher's younger brother, is one of his 
pals. He has seen what changes a hit can 
make for an entire family. Eddie Dano is 
determined there will be two top singing 
Eddies from South Philadelphia. 

Also in the "ready to go" class is Bill 
Carey, who can croon a ballad, belt out a 
rock 'n' roller or moan a blues with the 
best of them. His springtime release for 
Savoy, "The Padre of Old San Antone," 
backed with "You've Broken My Heart," 
fluttered but did not fly. He hopes that 
a blues which he wrote himself, "Beyond 
the Shadow of a Doubt," will be his sum- 
mer contender for hit-parade honors. 

Back home in Chicago, Bill's vocal ca- 
reer began forcibly. The band at a fra- 
ternity dance had no vocalist. Pals con- 
verged on Bill and literally tossed him on 
stage. 

His Chicago TV shows and recordings 
were done under his own name, Bill Snary. 
New Yorkers, he found, habitually mis- 
spelled it, so he did a slight revision to 
* Carey." 

Those first Manhattan days were rigor- 
ous. He was making the rounds when he 
ran into another Chicagoan, Jim Lowe, 
who was having no better luck. Pooling 
resources, they took an apartment and got 
out of depressing single hotel rooms. 
Working together, they almost made it 
with "Witch on the Mountain," which Bill 
wrote and Jim recorded. Jim, now on 
WCBS, clicked with "Green Door" and— 
with the same kind of rivalry which can 
put two pals on a basketball team— Bill 
feels he, too, has a big one upcoming. 

Double-date-wise, they're enough to give 
any girl schizophrenia. Said one young 
lady, "I never knew which one I had the 
worst crush on. They're so handsome, so 
alike, so different . . ." 

Both are six-two and broad-shouldered. 
Both have curly hair, but Jim's is blond 
and his mischievous blue eyes twinkle. 
Bill is dark, with olive skin and dreamy 
brown eyes. In their lean days, they wore 
each other's clothes — and doubled their 
effective wardrobe. 

As joyous a pair of bachelors as ever 
teamed up to go girling around Manhattan, 
the two now occupy a swank Sutton Place 
apartment. Friends predict that, for Bill, 
as well as for Jim, there's many a hit rec- 
ord still behind that Green Door. 



In today's wide-open recording race, 
even the lollipop set has its own particular 
hero. He's Scott Engel, 13, who still likes 
his model airplanes but is just discover- 
ing girls. Scott, who gathered his own 
fan clubs while appearing as star of 
George Scheck's Star Time on ABC-TV, 
belts out his first recording in a big voice. 
Appropriately, his RKO-Unique platter is 
entitled, "When Is a Boy a Man?" 

Scott himself has been doing a man- 
sized job ever since he was five, when he 
simultaneously learned to ride a horse, 
sing a song and act his first role in a Texas 
production of "Ten Nights in a Barroom." 
He acquired more dignified credits on 
Broadway. His first role was in "Plain 
and Fancy," followed by "Pipe Dream." 

While still calling Denver, Colorado, his 
home, he shares a New York apartment 
with his mother. Scott's room is filled 
with model aircraft and cars he has as- 
sembled and drawings he has made. He 
took to his first song-plugging tour heart- 
ily. It afforded him not only an oppor- 
tunity to meet disc jockeys, but also to get 
out to visit friends in Ohio who had a big 
farm. Scott made the most of it. His one 
objection to Manhattan is: "It's no place to 
own a dog, ride a horse or shoot a gun. 
I'm the outdoor type." 

Johnny Mathis, one of the best athletes 
ever to come out of the San Francisco 
public-school system, learned to soar on 
the high jump. His six-feet, five-and-a- 
half-inch record has been duplicated only 
four times in Olympic history. In music, 
too, Johnny has set his sights high. When 
his Columbia recordings, "Warm and 
Tender" and "Wonderful, Wonderful," 
went into the popularity charts, Johnny 
took the news in stride. "Sure, I'd like a 
hit, but I'd rather develop into a distinc- 
tive, dynamic personality. Someone like 
Nat 'King' Cole, Sinatra, Lena Home or 
Belafonte." 

Aided by Bob Prince, his arranger and 
general advisor, Johnny chooses his songs 
carefully. "If it is musically good, if it is 
sincere, it will be easy to sing and easy 
to keep on doing." 

Appearance in the movie, "Lizzie," was 
a step upward, but his biggest boost came 
right from his own family. Johnny is 
number four among the six Mathis chil- 
dren. His father, Clem, now an interior 
decorator, was once a song- and- dance 
man. "Dad taught us all his routines. 
We'd have a ball." Johnny, dressed up in 
his best sports coat, earned many a five- 
dollar fee "from Ladies' Leagues and 
things like that," but refused early offers 
to turn pro, either as a musician or ath- 
lete. "None of them was worth quitting 
school to take." At San Francisco State 
College, he majored in physical educa- 
tion. 

He also studied classical music. Irrev- 
erently, he referred to one of the most 
august of masters as "Dick Wagner," pro- 
voking frantic shouts from his teacher, 
"You pronounce it 'Reekard Vaagner'!" 
However, Johnny's pal "Dick," with his 
voice-taxing arias, taught Johriny to sweep 
from his highest voice range to his lowestT " 
Johnny used this technique in "Caravan" 
— "There's a lot of satisfaction in doing a 
difficult piece well." Columbia's peri- 
patetic producer of pop albums, George 
Avakian, who signed Johnny, says, "He 
can do as many different things as four 
very different singers might — and do them 
all well . . . there's tenderness in 'Autumn 
in Rome,' violence in 'Babalu,' exoticism 
in 'Caravan,' and downright rhythm-and- 
blues in 'Angel Eyes.' His improvisational 
flights in all tempos are a reflection of his 
awareness of modern jazz." 

Johnny's goal for a distinguished mus- 
ical career interferes, he admits, with his 
personal wish for the warm family life he 



MS 



has always known. When he dares choose 
a wife, he thinks it will be a career girl. 
"They're more independent. Their minds 
aren't so easily changed. It takes more 
persuasion before they're ready to marry 
a guy." Above all, his girl has to be a 
lady: "They've found out that a girl can 
be beautiful in so many ways. Such a girl 
is more interesting. You always discover 
new things about her." 

Is there any particular girl? Johnny 
admits a certain little Manhattan secre- 
tary has him worried. "That Joan Wright 
. . . we go to dinner, or bicycle riding in 
the park . . . well, sometimes I have to re- 
mind myself I haven't yet got where I 
want to get in music. . . ." 

Both discouragements and approval help 
define a singer's style. Eddie Cochran, 
the Oklahoma-born, Minnesota-reared 
Californian who gave many teenagers 
their song in "Sittin' in the Balcony," still 
bristles about "that glee club deal." Says 
Eddie, "This teacher didn't dig the music 
I was singing. He gave me a bad time, 
man. He wanted me to sing all this long- 
hair stuff he was trying to teach me." 

Eddie already knew how he wanted to 
sound. "My brothers, sisters, dad and 
mother liked to hear me sing. We used to 
sing around the house. Home singing is 
happy singing." 

As an exuberant guitar player, he sat in 
on recording dates of others. Song writer 
Jerry Capehart, his personal manager, 
sent him solo to Liberty Records with 
"Twenty Flight Rock"— "then they called 
me and asked if I'd be kind enough to do 
a part in the movie "The Girl Can't Help 
It.' It just about knocked me out. Every- 
body was real great to me." Acclaim 
brings problems: "You go all these places 
and all these people are buttering you up 
. . . the girls screaming and all. It's not 
easy to keep your feet on the ground, 
man." While he has worked for his suc- 
cess, he also thinks he's lucky. "I feel 
kind of bad about some who have been 
in it longer than me, and trying hard, 
that don't make it." Eddie, young as he 
is, tries to take a long view. "We're just 
regular people, so when this deal came 
along — why, we just looked at it as some- 
thing else." 

Bob Roubian, too, takes a stoutly mat- 
ter-of-fact view. Although Prep Records, 
which launched his "Rocket to the Moon" 
and "Paper Moon," considers him one of 
its most promising artists, colorful Bob 
maintains, "I'm in the fish business." And 
indeed he is. Once a mathematics major 
at Pomona Junior College, he now owns 
a restaurant, "The Crab Cooker," at New- 
port Beach, near Hollywood, where mu- 
sicians such as Johnny Mercer and Coun- 
try Washburn enjoy both good food and 
jam sessions. Bob writes music and sings 
in a big, booming voice. "I like good 
jazz. The kind you get on Basin Street 
and Bergen Street in New Orleans." 

His father, a contractor, is Armenian; 
his mother, an Italian. Negroes moved 
into their area in Pasadena. "That's where 
my music started. I'd go to their churches 
to listen. They preach a lyric. I am so 
happy to feel the rhythm the colored peo- 
ple do. I intend to write like them." His 
"Popcorn Song," recorded with Clime 
Stone's aid, sold half a million. Now his 
way is opening: "I have a lot of faith my 
dreams will come true." 

George Hamilton IV, age 19, is another 
who has found dreams can come true. As 
a student at the University of North 
Carolina, he was working part-time at 
WTOB-TV when he recorded his friend 
Johnny Dee's song for Colonial. His ap- 
pearance on the Arthur Godfrey shows 
gave it a national hearing. "A Rose and 
a Baby Ruth" sold 100,000 records in two 
days and ABC-Paramount bought the 
master. George scored again with "Only 



One Love." He now is heard on CBS-TV's 
Jimmy Dean Show. 

His numerical name has provoked many 
questions. Says George, "My mother had 
to get me a copy of the family tree so that 
I could answer them. The Hamiltons 
came from Edinburgh, Scotland. The first 
to be born in America was Alexander Ho- 
ratio in 1756." He also can chart the 
course of his own ambition: "As a kid I 
thought Gene Autry was the living end." 
Hank Williams was next. "I always lis- 
tened to Grand Ole Opry on Saturday 
nights." His reaction to his own sudden 
rise is on the cool side. He lives in a 
rooming house in a Washington suburb, 
dislikes big cities and much prefers driv- 
ing up into the mountains or seeing a 
show with his girlfriend, Tinky, to going 
to night clubs. 

J ohnny Cash has Big River blues in 
his voice . . . and the sound of the prairie 
wind. On his guitar, he plays "an old 
standard country beat with the rhythm 
accented and intensified." But, in this, 
his listeners find the drive of America on 
the go ... to work, to war, to love — and, 
sometimes, just to go. His song titles, 
too, carry the theme: "I Walk the Line," 
"There You Go," "Next in Line," "Train 
of Love," "So Doggone Lonesome," "Don't 
Make Me Go." 

Intense, talented Johnny has a right to 
be the apostle of the uprooted. Kingsland, 
Arkansas, was grim, heartbreaking coun- 
try when Johnny was born February 26, 
1932. With the aid of a rehabilitation 
program, the family moved to forty acres 
near Dyess. They found no fortune, but 
they always sang. At 18, he enlisted in 
the Air Force and met his girl "sixteen 
nights before I was sent to Germany for 
three years." Upon his return, they were 
married. In Memphis, Johnny tried to 
sell home appliances. He was "doing very 
bad" when he went over to Sun Records, 
around the corner from Beale Street, to 
ask Sam Phillips (the man who discovered 
Elvis Presley) for an audition. Sam, un- 
impressed by Johnny's hymn singing, sug- 
gested he try writing his own songs — he 
had had some poems published in Stars 
and Stripes. Johnny produced "Cry, Cry, 
Cry," and "Hey, Porter." His friends, 
Luther Perkins and Marshall Grant, 
backed him on guitar and bass. Today, 
the three are in demand for TV and per- 
sonal appearances. 

A song evolves by lonely stages for 
Johnny. Out on the road with a show, he 
gets homesick. Scraps of words and bits 
of music "come into my head. Then, when 
I get home, I fish maybe forty, fifty 
scraps of paper — my notes — out of my 
pockets and go to work. Then maybe 
I get a tune." 

Many a young hopeful follows the same 
song-writing formula. Touring rock 'n' 
roll and hillbilly shows give the boys a 
chance to try out their tunes before an 
audience of their own age. If a little 
studio then cuts a few discs and the tune 
takes off, both singer and studio are on 
their way to a fortune. 

That's the individual side of it — star- 
tling, exciting, life-changing for the lucky 
ones. The collective effect is overpower- 
ing. About 150 new recordings — 300 songs 
— are being released each week. If the 
kids like the tune, it's made, whatever 
its label. Trade publications such as 
Variety, Billboard and The Cash Box call 
it an unprecedented "grass-roots move- 
ment," a musical revolution in which the 
kid next door has almost as much chance 
for a hit as the professional tunesmith or 
big-name singer. 

The field's wide open. Anyone can win 
— if he has the talent and personality that 
speak to America's teenagers in rhythms 
which pulse with their own heartbeat. 



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TV 



RADIO 
MIRROR 



SEPTEMBER, 1957 



ATLANTIC EDITION 



VOL. 48, NO. 4 



Ann Mosher, Editor 
Teresa Buxton, Managing Editor 
Claire Safran, Associate Editor 
Gay Miyoshi, Assistant Editor 



Jack Zasorin, Art Director 
Frances Maly, Associate Art Director 
Joan Clarke, Assistant Art Director 
Bud Goode, West Coast Editor 



PEOPLE ON THE AIR 

What's New on the East Coast by Peter Abbott 4 

What's New on the West Coast by Bud Goode 10 

Ed Sullivan's Travels by Mrs. Ed Sullivan 17 

Young Man in a Hurry (Jay Barney) by Diane Isola 20 

Meet the Quiz Kings Face to Face! by Frances Kish 22 

Interview Subject: Mike Wallace by Gregory Merwin 26 

He's Walkin' on Air (Ricky Nelson) by Fredda Balling 28 

Try These Recipes by Kathryn Murray 30 

Hilltop House (Fiction Bonus based on the popular daytime drama) ... 44 

Come to the Aid of Your Party (The Mace School) . .by Mary Temple 46 

Keeping Up With The Dick Joneses by Gordon Budge 50 

Grand Ole Opry 52 

A Dog's Life (Lassie ) 58 

FEATURES IN FULL COLOR 

Sal Mineo's Really Moving by Helen Bolstad 32 

Three's the Most! (The McGuire Sisters) by Martin Cohen 34 

A Slightly Reformed Character (Spike Jones).... by Maurine Remenih 38 

He Will Never Be a Has-Been! (Elvis Presley) by Eunice Field 40 

YOUR LOCAL STATION 

Spinning Around (WORD 6 

From Borsht to Caviar (WWDC) 8 

The Record Players: Ambassador Satch by Al Collins 12 

All for Glamour (Debra Paget— NT A Film Network) 14 

Morsels for Thought (WCSH, WCSH-TV) ; . . . 59 

Your Pal Pallan (KDKA) 60 



YOUR SPECIAL SERVICES 

Information Booth 13 

TV Radio Mirror Goes to the Movies by Janet Graves 15 

Movies on TV 16 

Beauty: One Look — Two Ways (The Terry Twins) ..by Harriet Segman 57 

New Patterns for You (smart wardrobe suggestions) 68 

Vote for Your Favorites (monthly Gold Medal ballot) 80 

New Designs for Living (needlecraft and transfer patterns) 88 

Cover portrait of Ricky Nelson courtesy of ABC-TV 



BUY YOUR OCTOBER ISSUE EARLY • ON SALE SEPTEMBER S 



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WHAT'S NEW ON THE EAST 




By PETER ABBOTT 



Schoolteacher Dorothy Olsen named that tune and hit the jackpot 
— a long-term pact for Bandstand with Skitch Henderson, Bert Parks. 





When Peter, the pride of Candy and Hal March, 
grows up, he can see Dad's new movie as a TV oldie. 



My million-dollar guy, says newlywed 
Lynn Dollar of husband Doug Rodgers. 



For What's New On 
The West Coast, See Page H 



Love, Anyone? Lovely Janette Davis 
is prettier than ever, wearing that dia- 
mond rock in the Tiffany setting. The 
lucky guy, Frank Musiello, is one of 
Godfrey's exec-producers. Frank and 
Jan have been working closely since 
she became producer of Talent Scouts. 
Matter of fact, they've had adjoining 
offices, but no one knew that Cupid 
was playing the office boy. Jan will 
get married without flourish and sud- 
denly. "Right now," says Jan, "I'm 
just getting used to being engaged. 
It's such a wonderful feeling, I want 
to hang onto it for a while." . . . And 
Joyce Van Patten, who plays Janice 
Turner in As The World Turns, is 
likely any time to up and marry Marty 
Balsam, Gablish-looking actor who's 
been in such productions as "Middle 
of the Night," "Twelve Angry Men," 
"Waterfront," etc. Joyce, herself, is 
kind of wedded to the theater. Her 
mother, Jo Van Patten, is a theatrical 
agent, and her brother Dick has a 
featured part in TV's Mama series. 
Twenty-two-year-old Joyce has been 
honored with the Donaldson Award 
for Broadway performances. Present- 
ly, she is in the hit, "A Hole in the 
Head," as a sexy wench who unnerves 
Paul Douglas. This month, around 



Manhattan, she begins work in a new 
Paddy Chayefsky movie. Busy, yes, 
but about the time leaves begin turn- 
ing, bells should be ringing for Marty 
and Joyce. . . . And should we men- 
tion that Tommy Sands and cute Ann 
Leonardo, both Californians, met in 
New York and then had dinner to- 
gether? More than once. "Strictly 
social-business," Ann says and adds 
that her kind-of-steady boyfriend is 
a medical student from back home in 
Fresno. Tommy's semi-steady con- 
tinues to be Molly Bee, which he has 
confirmed with a double-diamond 
friendship ring. (Note: Tommy will 
be twenty on August 27th. Bet he's 
married before he's twenty-one.) 

Quick Passes: The new Art Carney 
comedy series has Art as a bachelor 
harried by mommy. ... As stated 
before, Pat Boone does not give up 
easily. Father of three li'l gals, he's 
hoping the fourth, due late Febru- 
ary, will be male. . . . TV's Paul Win- 
chell, along with his sawdust cronies, 
has recorded a delightful new musical 
version of "Pinocchio" for Decca. . . . 
And Paul's close friend, Dennis 
James, is trying to sell a TV show 
titled, What Makes You Tick?, in 



COAST 



which studio viewers volunteer to 
undergo a series of questions and tests 
for bravery, intelligence, etc. . . . Good 
prospects for a regular Billy Graham 
TV show this season. . . . And good- 
looking Janet Blair negotiating to do 
specs since demise of Caesar show. 
. . . Terry O'Sullivan, Jan Miner's 
spouse, being considered for singing 
lead in Broadway musical. . . . And 
Jayne Meadows asks for plug for new 
Coral cooky by the McGuire Sisters, 
titled, "But I Haven't Got Him." 
Lyrics are by Jayne's husband, Steve 
Allen. Who's him? 

Bashful Buster : He's got curly brown 
hair, baby-blue eyes and he's Casey 
Tibbs, 27-year-old world's champion 
bronco-buster. Casey stars in Gen- 
eral Mills' big televised rodeo over 
CBS-TV on September 14th. A shy 
bachelor, Casey, since the age of ten, 
has been taming colts that act as if 
they're full of Sugar Jets. He has 
earned over $250,000 in prize money 
which he has put into Lincoln auto- 
mobiles and joyful living. He played 
himself opposite Brandon de Wilde 
on Screen Directors' Playhouse, was 
so good that he was called back to 
make a pilot film for a new TV series, 
Indian Scout. With a past that in- 
cludes ten, broken ribs, a thrice- 
cracked ankle, fractured jaw and 
mangled shoulder ligament, Casey is 
getting ready to settle down. He 
bought himself a ranch of seven thou- 
sand acres (kind of garden-size) for 
a beginning at Mission Ridge, South 
Dakota, and is lacking only a haus- 
frau. So case Casey and remember 
he's very shy. 

Million-dollar Guy: Lynn Dollar, 
beautiful hostess on $64,000 Question 
and Weather Gal for New York's 
WRCA-TV, was reported around 
town with Vic Mature, Pete Forestall, 
Vince Scully, etc., but turned tables 
on them all and married Doug Rodg- 
ers on July 14. Doug, an actor, has 
worked on Matinee Theater, Chey- 
enne. Says Lynn, "He is a million- 
dollar guy — tall, dark, very handsome 
and very talented." Doug has a six- 
three physique that was voted the 
best in his graduating class at An- 
napolis. Since leaving the Navy, Doug 
has worked as radio and TV producer 
and director, then played a lead in 
"Plain and Fancy." He began courting 
Lynn better than a year ago. Says 
Lynn, "We knew we were serious 
when we began to speculate about the 
kind of kids we might have since both 
of us have Indian blood. Doug's is 
Penobscot and mine's Sioux." Lynn, 




Songbird Janette Davis, now Talent Scouts producer, only had to look as far as 
an adjoining office to find romance with Frank Musiello, who's a Godfreyite, too. 



born Florence Anderson, has two am- 
bitions — to be an Arlene Francis-type 
femcee and make a good home. "I like 
informality and will furnish in 'early 
nothing'!" And she wants babies. 
"Children don't interfere much with 
a TV career," she notes. "All you 
have to do is raise the camera and no 
one but the studio crew knows that 
you're pregnant." 

Summer Stew: Barry Sullivan got 
himself a good way to make a living. 
Barry stars in the prime new series, 
Harbourmaster, which replaces Bob 
Cummings' show on NBC -TV next 
month, with R. J. Reynolds as sponsor. 
The sequences are being shot off the 
beautiful coast of Gloucester, Mass., 
on a 30-foot boat. . . . And, speaking of 
making hay in the sunshine, Victor 
Borge bought himself a piece of Den- 
mark that includes a castle and 15,000 
apple trees. Meanwhile, at his Con- 
necticut poultry farm, he has devel- 
oped a new product called "Mink's 
Mix." It's an animal food and, if you 
can't afford to buy a mink stole, you 
might consider buying Victor's prod- 
uct and do-it-yourself. . . . Madeleine 
Carroll returns from her Spanish 
castle end of this month and goes live 



again on NBC's Affairs Of Dr. Gentry. 
She bought her castle during the 
Spanish Civil War and everyone 
thought she was crazy, expecting the 
government would confiscate it, but 
they didn't. Every summer she and 
her husband spend six weeks in the 
castle. Her moat is a mere two-and- 
a-half miles of Mediterranean. 

That Jones Boy: Dean of the Jones 
Boys, M-G-M recording and movie 
artist, is a test case. He's their first 
star to get a video build-up and 
M-G-M has contracted with NBC for 
Dean to make a half-dozen appear- 
ances this year. That accounts for his 
guesting with Dinah and Steve. Ed 
Sullivan first tried to get Dean, but 
then M-G-M was nixing TV. Visiting 
Manhattan, Dean talked frankly about 
why he gave up the ministry. "I didn't 
feel that I had the call. I enjoyed 
preaching as a lay minister. I would 
have been the seventh generation of 
preachers, but I couldn't feel fervent 
about it. It was really singing that I 
wanted to do." Dean, tall and hand- 
some, is prime star material. You have 
seen or can see him in the films "Tea 
and Sympathy," "Ten Thousand Bed- 
rooms" and, (Continued on page 7) 




el 

G 



Three to make merry — Steven, Norm and Joan — the Tulins build boats and, come summer, sail 'em. 




Anyone who knows 
beans about Boston 
knows that WORUs 
Norm Tulin is tops 



SPINNING AROUND 

The boss thinks I'm a wit," shrugs Norm Tulin, "and who's to argue 
with the boss?" Nobody argues — least of all the pleased-as-punch 
Pilgrims who tune in to Norm daily from 6 to 9 A.M. on Boston's 
Station WORL. They get an earful of the aforementioned "wit," as 
well as what Norm calls "music to needle the noodle." This is perhaps 
best explained as "standards" or the new instrumental by the bands 
of Count Basie, Dick Maltby, Ralph Marterie, Percy Faith and Hugo 
Winterhalter. When words are put to the music, Norm likes them 
sung by Frank Sinatra, Kay Starr or Patti Page. He's also receptive 
to the newer sounds being made by such groups as the Hi-Lo's and the 
Conley Graves Trio. . . . Norm's work never becomes "humdrum" 
to him — or his listeners. He was the first deejay to do an international 
record hop. Norm accomplished this when a small Piper Clipper 
flew him, his records, and Jerry Vale to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to do the 
first record hop at the Dalhousie University gymnasium. In the 
same Piper Clipper, Norm did the first record hop from an airplane. 
This was last July, when he broadcast from the plane, buzzing the 
beaches of Cape Cod and answering record requests written out on 
the sand. . . . Norm's career may find him flying high now, but it all 
began with his feet firmly planted on a platform at an American Legion 
Oratorical Contest which Norm won when he was a high-school 
senior in Hartford, Connecticut. This was the "spark," says Norm, 
who went on from there to major in speech at Emerson College. He 
won an A.B. degree in 1951, then spent two years with the Army Signal 
Corps. In Korea, he was officer-in-charge of Radio Seoul. . . . While 
at Emerson College, Norm attended a sociology class and heard a pretty 
speech-therapy major deliver a lecture on the male animal. Happy 
to find someone who understood him, and also looked that good, Norm 
married Joan three years ago. They have an heir named Steven 
Randy, and Norm reports that he inherits Joan's good looks and that 
the timbre of his one-year-old wail is appreciated by everyone in 
their Wellesley Hills, Massachusetts neighborhood. The Tulins have 
a seven-room, split-level ranch house and Norm has been spending 
much of his spare time finishing off the pine-paneled basement play- 
room. When not thus engaged, his hobby is building small speedboats 
and sailing larger sailboats. On land, on the sea or in the air, Norm 
Tulin is undeniably a wit. So who's arguing? 



?ia 






■H 



w 



WHAT'S NEW— EAST 

(Continued jrom page 5) 



to come, "The Boy Friend." His latest 
M-G-M recording, an exciting one, is the 
theme from the movie, "Gunsight Ridge," 
and it is Dean you also hear on the sound- 
track. Dean has a very beautiful wife, a 
runner-up for title of Miss California, and 
two very young daughters. While travel- 
ing, Dean writes home daily. He says, 
openly, "I write every day because I can't 
afford long-distance phone calls. Every- 
thing is so expensive I've got to be thrifty 
in some ways." 

Mr. M & Mr. M: Hal and Garry are two 
of the nicest guys in the business. Both 
are old acquaintances from California 
Gold Rush Days when Mr. Moore teamed 
with Durante and Mr. March with 
Sweeney. Every once in a while, their 
paths cross. For example, Garry turned 
down $64,000 Question before Hal even 
auditioned for the show. Garry was doing 
so well with the morning stanza that he 
didn't feel he needed the quiz. Hal, how- 
ever, was just making the transition from 
radio to TV. $64,000 Etc. fit him like a 
glove and, just being himself, he was an 
overnight sensation. This month, Hal re- 
turns from Hollywood after making a 
movie, "Hear Me Good," and he will sub 
for Garry all of August as emcee of Tve 
Got A Secret, in addition to doing $64, etc. 
Hal moves into his rented home in New 
Rochelle and is delighted to get back. He 
wasn't very pleased to be separated from 
Candy just a couple of weeks after his 
first baby arrived. The baby, Peter 
Lindsey, delivered by $64,000-winner Dr. 
Francis Salvatore, weighed in at five 
pounds and thirteen ounces. Hal was so 
thrilled he presented Candy with an un- 
usual gold charm. It is a gold carving of 
Candy holding the baby in her arms. The 
charm is circled with freshwater pearls 
and inscribed, "Darling, we love you and 
thank you, Peter and Daddy." 

Clipping Along: Como's big problem on 
vacation is keeping his weight down. . . . 
Perry's sub, Julie La Rosa, keeps his black 
Caddy purring at the stage door so he and 
Rory can head out to his parents' beach 
home. . . . Milton Berle wants $52,000 
for his new half-hour comedy series. 
That's $52,000 for each week's episode. . . . 
Patti Page gets $30,000 a week to spend 
for singers on The Big Record when it 
preems next month. . . . Hal Holbrook, 
who plays Grayfing Dennis of The Brighter 
Day, journeys to Hannibal, Missouri, late 
this month to do his famed impersonation 
of Mark Twain on Tom Sawyer Day. . . . 
Wonderful success story is that of Dorothy 
Olsen, schoolteacher and Name That Tune 
winner in 1955. With no pro experience, 
she cut a couple kid records for RCA 
Victor, made appearances on Ding Dong 
School, then, this past spring, joined 
Skitch Henderson and Bert Parks on 
NBC's Bandstand. She has so ingratiated 
herself with the public that, this June, 
NBC gave her a long-term contract. "And 
with so little fanfare," she says. "I just 
got a phone call and was told, 'You've 
been with us since March and we'd like 
to keep you around and want to negotiate 
a year's contract with you.' " And that's 
how success came to Dorothy Olsen. 



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One word from Fred and the mail pours in. Promoting a 
clock-radio giveaway, he heard from some 75,000 listeners. 




He snubs the idea of 

a smash success, but Fred Fiske 

of WWDC has gone 

From Borsht 
to Caviar 



When Dame Fortune winked a mascaraed eye, 
Fred Fiske played hard to get. "I don't want 
to be a smash success," Fred announced when he 
was promoted to his own deejay shows on Wash- 
ington's Station WWDC. "I merely want to be a 
pleasant guy to be with every day. There are guys 
in radio and television who are great big hits. 
Then they die. I'd rather be the guy who lasts." 
. . . That was three years ago and Fred seems to 
have had it both ways — in a lasting success. He's 
heard Monday through Saturday from 10 to noon 
on The Fred Fiske Show and from 1 to 4 P.M. on 
Club 1260. For the time periods he's on, he's rated 
Number One deejay in the capital and he's rated, 
too, in Pulse's Top Ten Daytime Shows. . . . Fred's 
earliest ambition was to be a schoolteacher and 
he believes he hasn't strayed very far afield. "The 
kids listen to their favorite platter spinners more 
and for longer hours than they listen to their 
teachers," he explains. "And, by indirection, a 
radio performer must help mold the personality of 
the younger generation." . . . Fred has made the 
full circuit from borsht to caviar, with a stopover 
at the martini avenue known as Madison. At thirty- 
six, he's an "old timer" in show business. He got 
an early start when, at the age of fifteen, he took 
a summer job as a stagehand in a Catskill Moun- 
tain resort. Before the month was out, he was on 
stage as a straight man to such young and "un- 
known" comics as Danny Kaye, Red Buttons, 
Henny Youngman and Gene Baylos, all of whom 
were working for eats and experience. Actors 
have to be versatile in the Borsht Belt and the 
teen-age Fred also found himself playing an Army 
general in a production of Irwin Shaw's "Bury 
the Dead." ... At summer's end, he combined 
studies at Brooklyn's Lincoln High School with 
roles in such daytime dramas as Young Dr. Malone, 



Politicos or performers, Fred has shared his mike with 
most of them. Here, he chats with actor-singer Tab Hunter. 




Teenagers crowded the studio to celebrate Fred's sixth 
birthday on WWDC. He has an Old Timers Club, too. 



Perry Mason and Just Plain Bill. He continued his 
radio work while he earned a B.A. in Speech and 
Education at Brooklyn College. After service in 
the Air Force, he taught speech at his old alma 
mater, Lincoln High, eai-ned an M.A. in Speech at 
Columbia University's Teachers College, and re- 
turned to radio. It was the time when "returning 
veteran" plays were all over the dial and Fred 
played these roles on many of the top shows. 
When the vogue died out, Fred found that he was 
typed. He decided to stay out of drama until 
producers could forget him as a "returning vet- 
eran." . . . He landed a radio job in Lexington, 
Kentucky, and was returning from there to New 
York in 1947 when he stopped off in Washington 
for one day. "Just for kicks," he took auditions at 
three stations and found himself with three job 
offers as an announcer. He took the one with WOL 
and, when WWDC purchased that station's oper- 
ation, he and morning-man Art Brown were the 
only two personalities they kept on. Fred was 
heard on Reporters' Roundup, mangled the Eng- 
lish language as the Capitol Hillbilly, and then 
launched his record shows. . . . Much in demand 
as an emcee and toastmaster, Fred avoids com- 
mercial events and appears free of charge at 
legitimate public service and civic functions. "I 
make my living through radio," he says, "and it 
would be indecent to charge people who are kind 
to me." . . . Fred and his wife Ruth have two 
children, Peggy, 3, and Warren, 2. Peggy's the 
first to react to her father's occupation and can be 
heard explaining to playmates "how Daddy fits 
into the radio in the car." Striking proof of Fred's 
"success" is the Fiskes' brick Colonial home in 
Chevy Chase, Maryland. The house features five 
bedrooms and an equal number of baths. Grins 
Fred, "Brooklyn was never like this." 




If this be success, then Fred, his wife Ruth and young 
piggy-back riders Peggy and Warren make the most of it. 




WHAT'S NEW ON THE WEST COAST 




By BUD GOODE 



Lassie meets Jon Provost, a seven- 
year-old "veteran" who'll join show. 




Ernie and Betty Ford enjoy a night 
out just before pop got the measles! 



10 




For fan-clubbers, the arrow wasn't 
Michael Ansara's or John Lupton's. 



News Beat: Molly Bee, 17-year-old, 
plays her first love scene with hand- 
some young Rod McKuen in Univer- 
sal-International's "Summer Love." Is 
it summer love? When Tommy Sands 
returned after four weeks of knock- 
ing 'em dead at New York's Roxy 
Theater, he gave Molly a "friendship" 
ring. She wears it on the pinky of 
her left hand. "Friendship Ring," a 
good title for a love song? . . . Speak- 
ing of singing, Hugh O'Brian has 
recorded his first album for the ABC- 
Paramount label, "Wyatt Earp Sings." 
After the session, Hugh was nervous, 
didn't like the way he sounded. But 
press agent Joe Hoenig says, "Wyatt, 
I mean Hugh, is really good. I was 
pleasantly surprised." Actor-dancer- 
singer O'Brian can now be billed as 
the baritone with the fastest draw. . . . 
For the first time in fifteen years, Eve 
Arden changed the color of her hair — 
to red. It's for her new video series, 
which of course is in black and white. 

On the Links: Art Linkletter's son 
Jack has set the date, December 21, 
when he and young UCLA physical - 
education major, Bobbie Hughes, will 
wed. Meantime, Jack is continuing 
on his dad's CBS-TV and Radio 
House Party show, Bobbie coaches 
the kids at Griffith Park, and both are 
in Prof. Peterson's marriage class. . . . 
Art recently returned from his vaca- 
tion and trip to the Far East. While 
in Japan he and Lois didn't stay at the 
more standard tourist hotel. Instead, 
they picked a small Japanese hotel 
where the custom is to remove shoes 
when entering the lobby. Practical- 
minded Art took the idea home — three 
pairs of shoes belonging to the three 
youngest Links — Robert, Sharon and 
Dianne — now rest on the back porch. 
Says Art, "Keeps the carpet clean." 
. . . Next season, Art, with producer 
John Guedel, will do six specs for 
CBS, to be called "People and Places." 
One will deal with all those wonderful 
millionaires down Dallas way. Which 
reminds Art of the gag about the poor 
Texan who owned only 30 acres — the 
heart of Houston. 

Doctors' Dilemmas: Concussion is 
not the title of a new TV series, but a 
near-tragedy for pretty Kathy Nolan 
who appears in the new ABC -TV se- 
ries, The Real McCoys. While filming 
one of the shows with star Walter 
Brennan, Kathy made a hasty exit, 
ran into a prop door, found it was the 
real McCoy. Kathy's pretty head hit 
the concrete floor with a loud crash. 
She spent the next ten days at Cedars 
of Lebanon Hospital. Happy to report, 
Kathy is back on the job — with a 

healthy respect for all "prop" doors 

Tennessee Ernie thought his young 
son Buck was about to catch the 



measles from younger son Brion. To 
lessen the impact of each little measle, 
Ernie and wife Betty took Buck to 
the doctor for a shot of gamma globu- 
lin. Buck howled; but it was worth it 
— he never broke out. Just before his 
vacation — Ernie did. 

Cupid's Unbroken Arrow: Hugh 
O'Brian publishes a Wyatt Earp 
newspaper avidly read by his fans. 
Each issue contains a rundown on 
some other Western star. Recently, 
features have appeared about Clint 
Cheyenne Walker and John Lupton, 
star of Broken Arrow. Somehow, as a 
result of the Lupton story, the presi- 
dent of his fan club, Roy St. John, 
met the president of Hugh O'Brian's 
fan club, Irene Jackson. They found 
they had much more in common than 
fan club presidencies and, after a 
brief courtship, were married! Seems 
Cupid shoots straight, too. . . . Speak- 
ing of John Lupton, he and his wife 
Anne are about to buy their first 
home in picturesque Mandeville Can- 
yon. What's holding them back? The 
baby-sitter problem. In their present 
apartment, neighbor Beverly Gar- 
land has developed into an ace, num- 
ber-one sitter and they're reluctant to 
give her up. Recently, John and Anne 
celebrated their first wedding anni- 
versary, combined with the celebra- 
tion of their first night out since 
Rollin was born. Naturally, Beverly 
was the sitter. Everybody had a ball, 
including Beverly, who dearly loves 
little Rollin and who would hate to 
see the Luptons move. Answer to the 
moving problem: Beverly will be 
buying a lot in Mandeville Canyon. 

Business and Pleasure: Tony Cur- 
tis, bearded for a movie role, visited 
London's Palladium to congratulate 
Eddie Fisher on his third triumphant 
return there. Eddie and spouse Deb- 
bie Reynolds subsequently toured Eu- 
rope on a talent search for musical 
artists and novelties for his hour-long 
NBC-TV show this fall. One of the 
big prizes they've come up with is 
Dickie Valentine, a very popular 
British singer. . . . Lawrence Welk 
went to England and the Continent, 
where he'll do some thinking about 
bringing back a new show called 
Music For Teenagers, and the details 
for an international dance contest — 
with winners to come to his Aragon 
Ballroom for a dance-off. If this in- 
ternational idea is as successful as 
his Saturday-night waltz contests, he 
could help raise the iron curtain in 
three-quarter time. . . . David Niven 
also in Europe, combining vacation 
with a role in the film "Bonjour Tris- 
tesse." Then it's back to join Jane 
Powell, Charles Boyer, Robert Ryan 
and Jack Lemmon in the new half- 




In London, bearded Tony Curtis visits 
Eddie Fisher and Dickie Valentine, a 
singer Eddie will import for fall TV. 



hour Alcoa-Goody ear Playhouse, or 
should we say "Five-Star Theater"? 

Casting: Hundreds of youngsters 
were auditioned before seven-year- 
old Jon Provost was chosen to play 
the role of "Timmy," a new character 
to be introduced in the fall Lassie se- 
ries. Blond and blue-eyed, Jon is 
forty -four inches tall and weighs 
thirty-nine pounds. His four months 
in Japan recently marked the com- 
pletion of his tenth movie role. 
Continuing in the Lassie cast are 
fourteen-year-old Tommy Rettig, Jan 
Clayton and George Cleveland. But, 
after the first thirteen episodes, Tom- 
my and Jan will probably be retired 
for a new set of characters built 
around young Jon. Lassie, of course, 
remains. . . . Elvis Presley casts Dean 
Martin as his favorite singer; Dean 
Martin says Sinatra is his favorite 
singer; Sinatra says Pat Boone is the 
best of the new crop; and Boone likes 
Presley. They go round 'n' round, 
but where's Como? 

Incidental Intelligence : Dinah Shore 
was a star fencer at Vanderbilt Uni- 
versity. Dinah goes to the Akron 
Soapbox Derby this summer. Does 
she expect a Chevrolet to win? Mean- 
while, back at her new home, Dinah 
is building in a rehearsal hall — so she 
can be closer to her children while 
working on the series of 20 shows she 
has planned for next season. . . . 
When maestro Lawrence Welk want- 
ed to find out what little Janet Len- 
non wanted for her birthday, he 
asked Alice Lon to see if she could 
cadge the answer, quote, ". . . with- 
out being snoopish." . . . The Thalians, 
a group of young Hollywood people 
taken from all the industry trades, 
have joined together to see what they 
can do to help the mentally ill, espe- 
cially children. Under the guidance 
of the newly-elected president, Deb- 
bie Reynolds, vice-president Buddy 
Bregman, and secretary Sammy 
Davis, Jr., they recently voted $5,000 
of their hard-earned money to help 
disturbed children at Halfway House. 
That's the heart of Hollywood. 

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THE RECORD PLAYERS 

This space rotates among 
Gene Stuart of WAVZ, 
Art Pallan of KDKA, 
Bill Mayer of WRCV 
and Al "Jazzbo" Collins 
of WRCA and NBC 



Al: Well, now, The Man is here. 
We're saluting the great Louis Arm- 
strong — lately of New Orleans and a 
little later of the entire world — on his 
fortieth anniversary in show business 
and music business. Louis, do you 
remember the first time that you 
knew music had a message for you? 
Louis: Well I remember 'way early 
back when we used to sing in the 
quartets. We used to go two by 
two, singing — and somebody would 
call us and pass the hat. In 1915, 
a kid pulling a dollar and a half the 
night, he was making some money! 
Al: How about your first cornet job? 
Louis: That was in a honky-tonk. 
The cornet was one of the old beat- 
up ones . . . got out of a pawnshop. 
And the cornet man didn't show up. 
You know, in those days, a cat'd 
liable to wake up and can't get up! 
So they said, go get that li'l old boy 
out there to blow here. I had just 
come out of the orphanage and I had 
been taking music there. I had a 
brass band and we use to play on 
Sundays for the boys to march to 
church. I'd play "The Saints." 
Al: About your tour . . . when was 
the first time you had a European job? 
Louis: First time? 1952. 
Al: And how has it changed? 
Louis: Well, you know, them wars 
kind of tore up things a little over 
there and none of the countries is the 
same. But they're still jumping. 
Al: They said in the papers, Louis, 
T that your job of spreading the Amer- 
v ican word was more effective than 
R some of the money they've spent on 




Here'show Ambassador Satch looks 
on Columbia album of the same 
name. Above — it's me, sans beard. 



Cl 



By AL COLLINS 

envoys and ambassadors, that you 
got the people on a level that had not 
been reached before. And you said 
that if you could get into Russia, 
you'd thaw some of the cats out . . . 
Louis: Them Russians, they can 
swing. What about "Otchi Tchor- 
niya"? 

Al: "Dark Eyes." Yeah! 
Louis: You take all the Russian 
dances, all that music . . . Those cats 
used to dance years ago here at the 
Russian Bear. Swing? Man! 
Al: Just a matter of time, isn't it? 
Louis: Anywhere, over there, you'll 
find musicians swinging, man. Down 
in Africa, them cats was wailing. 
Al: That's from 'way back. 
Louis: Nine tribes danced for us and 
none of them missed a beat. They 
had us play to see if they'd react to 
our music. 

Al: And they got the message? 
Louis: An old man about 110 years 
came out there, swinging there, with 
a shawl around him, man. And Lu- 
cille, my wife, couldn't stand it any 
longer. She went out there and 
wailed with him. 

Al: They use the phrase over here 
about sending a message with the 
music. Over there, they really do. 
Louis: Well, to me, I think they sent 
that message years ago. 
Al: A lot of people like that picture 
on the "Ambassador Satch" album 
for Columbia. 

Louis: I dig it myself. It reminds me 
of when we used to play in New 
Orleans. Always in style. 
Al: Sure, got to go first class. Well, 




listen, Louis, what are your reflections 
about rock 'n' roll and skiffle? 
Louis: It looks like every style they 
get, they go back and get it. I mean, 
look how long the skiffle was played. 
They used to do those little chittlin' 
rags in Chicago. 

Al: What is skiffle? What's the word? 
Louis: It's kind of a shout thing. 
You play it in house rent-parties, 
you know. And then, the rock 'n' 
roll, that came from the sanctified 
churches. 

Al: Yes, I can hear the same accent. 
Louis: So, lots of times you hear 
music, you know, just don't worry 
what it is so long as it sounds good. 
Al: Somebody once said "folk music" 
to you, Louis, and you're supposed 
to have said, "Why, daddy, I don't 
know any other kind of music but 
folk music. I ain't never heard a 
horse sing a song." 
Louis: I might have said that. 
Al: Louis, I sure hope that you're 
going to be able to go on for forty 
more years. How do you feel about 
the past? 

Louis: Well, I appreciate the past. 
But the future ain't doing so bad. 
Al: That's right. Do you have any 
plans for retirement? 
Louis: Well, no, you don't retire in 
music. You just put the horn down 
when you can't play no more, that's 
all. But as long as the horn ain't 
hurting me and I ain't hurting it . . . 
I mean, I'm my own public. I hear 
that horn every night. 
Al: And you want to hear it . . . 
Louis: As long as the sound is there. 



12 



Jazzbo's on Monitor, Sat., 8 to midnight, over NBC Radio and on The Al Collins Show, Mon.-Fri., 4 to 6 P.M., over New York's WRCA. 



information booth 




William Russell 



Round-Table Revival 

Please write something about William 

Russell, who stars in Sir Lancelot on TV. 

C. K., Mocanaqua, Pa. 

Breathing "the spirit of the young, the 
vibrant and the contemporary" into the 
shadowy fact and fable of Arthurian leg- 
end, is William Russell. The handsome, 
blue-eyed Britisher who stars as Sir Lance- 
lot feels right at home at Arthur's Table 
and hopes this filming of the knight's 
chivalrous deeds has provided audiences 
with a sort of viewer's Baedeker to the 
highways and byways of Old England. . . . 
Lancelot, Russ says, is "a charming char- 
acter, very light and gay without being 
sugary" — which brings us full circle to 
Russ, who's very much like that himself. 
• . . . Born in Sunderland, England, in 1924, 
Russ made his stage debut at eight, play- 
ing another Lancelot (Shakespeare's be- 
loved clown, Lancelot Gobbo, in "The 
Merchant of Venice"). His work at Fettes 
University, where he was considered a 
theatrical prodigy, led directly to early 
admission to Oxford — a singular honor. 
From 1942 till '47 he was with the RAF 
and it was not until 1946, while stationed 
at Lydda, Israel, that he could get around 
to stage business. As base entertainment 
officer, he produced shows and films, one 
of which depicted King Arthur and Sir L. 
In '47, Russ returned to Oxford, produced 
and acted in many plays and got an M.A. 
in English Literature. A series of valuable 
repertory jobs prepared him for his big 
break — a starring role in the Lewis Mile- 
stone film, "They Who Dare." The Lancelot 
series was to follow a number of important 
portrayals in radio, TV, films and on stage. 
. . . Russ is happily married to Balbina, 
the fiery French actress he met while on 
location in Cyprus. They plan a family, 
"eventually," have just finished decorating 
— in "Eighteenth Century," be it known — 
their "rather poetic" Regency house in 
Hempstead. 




BARLEHE 



Darlene Gillespie 

Mouseketeer Pals 

In a recent story on Annette Funicello, 
the name of Darlene Gillespie was inad- 
vertently omitted from the list of Annette's 
friends among the talented Mickey Mouse 
Club regulars. Of her fellow Mouseketeers, 
Annette declares, "They are all my favorite 
friends." For the many Darlene Gillespie 
fans who protested the omission of her 
name, we are glad to give you here a pic- 
ture of Darlene, with the promise of a 
story about her before too many months 
go by. 

Calling All Fans 

The following fan clubs invite new mem- 
bers. If you are interested, write to address 
given — not to TV Radio Mirror. 

Club executives, please note : If you have 
requested a TV Radio Mirror listing and 
it has not appeared as yet, please bear 
with us. We have, at present, an enormous 
backlog of such requests. If your club is 
still active, won't you drop a card and tell 
us so? We'll do our best to list you. 
Please! Bona fide clubs, only. 

The Four Preps Fan Club, c/o Judy 
Ross, 6119 Longridge, Van Nuys, Calif. 

Ricky Nelson Fan Club, c/o Ray Gillie, 
3737 Roselawn Road, Cleveland 22, Ohio. 

Teal Ames Fan Club, c/o Sandra Cons, 
4925 Plamondon Ave., Montreal, Quebec. 



FOR YOUR INFORMATION— If there's 
something you want to know about radio 
and television, write to Information Booth, 
TV Radio Mirror, 205 East 42nd St., New 
York 17, N. Y. We'll answer, if we can, 
provided your question is of general inter- 
est. Answers will appear in this column — 
but be sure to attach this box to your 
letter, and specify whether it concerns 
radio or TV. Sorry, no personal answers. 




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13 




ALL FOR CLAMOUR 



Look like a star, that's Debra's rule. She fol- 
lows it at home or with her mother and NTA's 
Frank Young at New York's El Morocco. 




Take an inside peep at moviedom 
as Debra Paget and Jeff Hunter 
host NTA's Premiere Performance 




Blue jeans give Debra the blues. She wants to bring back the heydays 
of glamour. Jeff Hunter, alternating host, does likewise for chivalry. 



14 



The good old days really were. So says Debra Paget — 
and this film star has the red hair to match her definite 
opinions. Debra prefers the Hollywood of Gloria Swan- 
son to the paler, more casual movie city of today. Though 
she's too young to remember the glamorous heydays of 
yesterday, she's on a one-girl — five-foot-three-and-a- 
half, 109 pounds of girl — campaign to bring them back. 
With her mother's help, Debra encrusted the top of a 
strawberry-pink Cadillac with jewels. They may have 
been paste, but the glitter stopped traffic — -when the car 
wasn't sheltered in the garage of a 26-room Beverly Hills 
establishment that is Debra's modern-day Pickfair. . . . 
"People come to Hollywood to see something they don't 
see in their own home towns," says Debra. In earrings 
that dangle for at least six inches, she provides the de- 
sired sights. For those who can't make the trip, Debra 
is visible as alternating host with Jeff Hunter on Premiere 
Performance, a series of top 20th Century-Fox films that 
are being shown on TV for the first time on the 133 sta- 
tions (such as WPIX in New York) that make up the 
new NTA Film Network. Between reels, Debra or Jeff 
initiates the viewer into the secrets of the make-up, ward- 
robe or prop departments. . . . Behind Debra's glitter is 



some good sense. "Glamour is being well groomed," she 
explains. "It's the general appearance and those special 
touches." She's a hard worker who begged for acting 
lessons when she was nine, made her movie debut at four- 
teen. She played eighteen-year-olds — until she actually 
turned eighteen and the studio put her in pigtails to play 
a fourteen-year-old. Her constant companion and per- 
sonal manager is her mother, Margaret Griffin, a zestful, 
outspoken woman who wishes columnists would play 
down her burlesque days and play up Broadway, where 
most of her own acting career was spent. "I'm kind of a 
lonely person," Debra says, "and Mother knows my 
moods and brings me out of them." The Griffins (Paget 
is an ancestral name) are a close-knit family, with many 
members in show business. They hold perpetual open- 
house amid ten television sets and the mermaids and Chi- 
nese statuary that are Debra's favorite decor. Debra 
would like to do musical comedy (she's showcased her 
talents at Las Vegas night clubs) . . . live half the year in 
Mexico (the scene of her current film, "The River's 
Edge") . . . and marry a "gentleman" who has a sense of 
humor and is not the life of the party. She promises to 
live happily — and glamorously — ever after. 



Surly Ken Becker puts Elvis on his mettle with heckling, 
and there are fireworks coming up in this jukebox joint. 




TT\TRAM>IO 
J. \ MIRROR 



the movi 



TV favorites on 

your theater screen 

By JANET GRAVES 

Loving You 

wallis, paramount; 

vistavision, technicolor 
Fashioned carefully to show off Elvis Presley 
in the best light, this drama-with-music casts 
him as a lonely young drifter, boomed into 
fame as a singing idol. It's press agent Liza- 
beth Scott who discovers him, hires him as 
vocalist with Wendell Corey's obscure band 
and promotes him with publicity stunts. Though 
Elvis gets entangled with the personal affairs 
of Liz and Wendell, he also shares a gentle 
romance with winsome Dolores Hart. Music is 
ladled out in generous portions — ballads, blues, 
but mostly rock 'n' roll. 

Sweet Smell of Success 

UNITED ARTISTS 

Scheduled to make his TV debut this fall with 
a dramatic role on General Electric Theater, 
Tony Curtis is now being seen in this expertly 
made shocker. He's a small-time New York 
publicity man, a thoroughgoing heel who has 
attached himself to the coattails of Burt Lan- 

1 caster, ruthless gossip columnist and radio 
commentator. Susan Harrison, Burt's sister, 

l has fallen in love with Marty Milner, a young 



musician, and Burt assigns Tony to break it 
up — by any means he chooses. Known as TV's 
Mrs. Gobel, Jeff Donnell is effective as Tony's 
disillusioned secretary, and Barbara Nichols 
strikes a note of pathos as his sometime girl- 
friend, a pawn in his schemes. 

Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? 

20th: cinemascope, de luxe color 
Tony Randall, once Mr. Peepers' pal, star of 
many TV dramas, really gets a chance to dis- 
play his comedy skill in this roaring farce. As 
a timid ad man, he tries to get film queen 
Jayne Mansfield's endorsement for a lipstick 
campaign — and winds up headlined as her 
new 7 beau, a great lover. With one gag after 
another, Hollywood here makes a ferocious 
attack on TV. But it's all in fun (though not 
for the kiddies). 

At Your Neighborhood Theaters 

A Hatful of Rain (20th: CinemaScope) : 
Powerful close-up of a troubled family. Drug 
addict Don Murray and loyal brother Anthony 
Franciosa hide the tragedy from Eva Marie 
Saint, Don's wife, and Lloyd Nolan, their father. 

Bernard ine (20th; CinemaScope, De Luxe 
Color) : In his first movie, Pat Boone leads a 
group of likeable teenagers, plots to help Dick 
Sargent, who's lovesick for Terry Moore. With 
songs, of course. 

The Delicate Delinquent (Paramount, Vista- 
Vision) : Jerry Lewis goes it alone on film, as 
a lonesome, wacky slum kid, who finds a friend 
in cop Darren McGavin. 




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Showing this month 



BACK TO BATAAN (RKO): Rousing pa- 
triotic melodrama finds Yank John Wayne, 
Filipino Anthony Quinn leading guerrilla 
fighters who harass the temporarily victorious 
Japanese. 

CRAIG'S WIFE (Columbia) : In the biggesl 

hit of her early film career, Rosalind Ru->ell 
dissects the character of a selfish woman who 
loves her house more than she does her hus- 
band (John Boles). 

DESTROYER (Columbia) : Tribute to Navy 
men of World War II. Edward G. Robinson, 
as a crusty old-timer, tussles with young 
Glenn Ford, who favors modern ways (and 
romances Marguerite Chapman). 

GOLDEN BOY (Columbia) : William Hol- 
den's debut film, a tough prize-ring drama. As 
cynical girlfriend of fight manager Adolphe 
Menjou, Barbara Stanwyck persuades Bill to 
give up the violin for the gloves, a decision 
he regrets. 

HE RAN ALL THE WAY (U.A.) : Fine 
acting by John Garfield and Shelley Winters 
in a crime story with unusual slants. A killer 
on the lam, John hides out in the home of 
Shelley and her terrorized family. 

LUCK OF THE IRISH, THE (20th): 
Funny and delightful fantasy. On a trip to 
Ireland, American newsman Tyrone Power 
meets colleen Anne Baxter — and Cecil Kel- 
laway, a leprechaun who comes to the U. S. 
as Ty's butler and rearranges his life. 

MAGNETIC MONSTER, THE (U.A.) : 
Interesting, suspenseful science-fiction. The 
"monster" is a mysterious, powerfully radio- 
active element that gets out of control and 
threatens the earth. Scientist Richard Carl- 
son races for a solution. 

NIGHT SONG (RKO) : Smoothly done ro- 
mance teams Dana Andrews, as a blinded 
musician, with Merle Oberon, as an heiress 
who pretends she's also blind, to by-pass his 
pride. Hoagy Carmichael scores. 

SAHARA (Columbia): Vigorous war-action 
story. Humphrey Bogart and other crewmen 
of an American tank pick up Allied soldiers 
and two Axis prisoners. The motley group 
battles desert thirst as Nazi troops come 
closer. With J. Carrol Naish. 

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY (20th): 
Touching and tearful. Concealing the heart 
condition that dooms her, Maureen O'Hara 
persuades husband John Payne to adopt little 
Connie Marshall, so he won't be alone. 

STEP LIVELY (RKO): Gay farce from 
Sinatra's crooning days. He's a hick play- 
wright victimized by small-time stage pro- 
ducer George Murphy. Gloria De Haven is 
Frankie's love interest. 

THREE FACES WEST (Republic): 
Strong, affecting drama. Fleeing Nazi oppres- 
sion, Austrian doctor Charles Coburn and 
daughter Sigrid Gurie come to America's 
Dust Bowl, where farmers including John 
Wayne fight against starvation. 

YOU BELONG TO ME (Columbia): 
Light, easygoing comedy, with deft clowning 
by Henry Fonda and Barbara Stanwyck. 
She's an M.D. He's her rich husband, ter- 
ribly jealous of her male patients. 



Sylvia Sullivan wouldn't 
be a bit surprised if 
showman-husband Ed 
said: "Better pack a bag— 
we're off to Madagascar" 



IN my travels around the world with 
my husband, Ed Sullivan, I've 
learned a lot of things that the geog- 
raphy books didn't spell out, because 
geography books can't measure the 
courage or the kindness of people. 

When we were in Vienna, not many 
weeks ago, Franz Cyrus, the United 
Press Bureau Chief, took us fifty miles 
from the heart of Vienna to the Austro- 
Hungarian border, guarded by barbed 
wire fences. On the Hungarian side, 
Commie patrols on horseback and 
thirty foot sentry towers manned by 
Commies with tommy guns prevented 
any more Hungarians from escaping. 

Across this particular part had 
streamed more than 100,000 Hunga- 
rians. Awaiting them on the Austrian 
side were farmers with tractors and 
farm wagons risking death to aid these 
fleeing Hungarians to safety. 

Forever and a day, whenever I think 
of Austria, I'll recognize it in terms of 
the selfless bravery of the Austrian 
people. Not only their bravery, but 
their complete generosity, because 
Austria did not set any quota on these 
Hungarian refugees and Austria did not 
specify that the Hungarians they re- 
ceived must be technicians or engineers. 
Austria welcomed with open arms any 
Hungarians who came across the bor- 
der. 

During that visit, we went out to one 
of the Hungarian Refugee Camps run 
by the International Red Cross. We 
were struck by the many Hungarian 
children minus fathers and mothers. 
The parents had sacrificed their lives in 
delivering the children to the Austrian 
border. 

There is a world-famed pastry shop 
in Vienna — Darnels. Thinking of the 
children in the Refugee Camp, we 
thought that it might bring a moment of 
happiness into their lives if they could 
have some of the wonderful chocolate 
layer cakes. So we ordered thirty-six 




SULLIVAN'S 




Continued 



► 



By MRS. ED SULLIVAN 



17 



SULLIVAN'S TRAVELS 

(Continued) 





Rome: Sylvia and Ed at party given by Italian film in- 
dustry. Mike Keon of Rome Daily American is at right. 



Vienna: They're greeted by Franz Cyrus, who arranged 
their memorable tour of the Austro-Hungarian frontier. 



layer cakes .and, inasmuch as we were leaving, asked 
Franz Cyrus to stage a party for the youngsters. The 
Austrian owners of the pastry shop, upon learning where 
the layer cakes were to be sent, came over to our table 
and said that they would only charge the actual costs 
of baking and icing the cakes. 

So, in Vienna we learned of the bravery and generos- 
ity of this amazing nation and I'll always consider this to 
be one of the very worthwhile things I've learned while 
traveling the world with my husband. 



In Japan, where Ed had gone to film some stuff from 
"Teahouse of the August Moon" for his Sunday-night 
program, I was amazed at the charm and friendliness of 
their people. The impression I had of the Japanese was 
completely altered. I marveled at their industry and 
at their farmers' use of every available inch of ground, 
right up to the highways. 

Quite recently, we went to Mexico where Ed was film- 
ing some stuff with Tyrone Power and Mel Ferrer in 
Darryl Zanuck's "The Sun {Continued from page 61) 



Berlin: Guide shows them where a bloody page of his- 
tory was closed — the site of Hitler's Reichs chancellery. 



Soviet sector: The Sullivans have a look-see around 
Stalinallee, the famed "glamour avenue" of East Berlin. 







Ed likes to meet the people in every country they visit, 
see the chief points of interest in each city. Above, the 
Sullivans shaking hands with traffic policeman in Vienna. 
Below, descending the steps of the Soviet War Memorial in 
East Berlin, built of marble from the chancellery ruins. 





Sylvia loves to browse around, admire art treasures and 
the exquisite architecture of earlier days. Here, they're 
both entranced by the fairy-tale loveliness of great halls 
in historic Schoenbrunn Palace, on the outskirts of Vienna. 



Each place they visit, Ed has an eye out for new talent. 
Each place, he's recognized and hailed. Below, table-to- 
table telephones at the Resi night club, in West Berlin, 
are kept busy as Sullivan takes messages from G.I. guests! 



The Ed Sullivan Show is seen over CBS-TV, Sunday, from 8 
to 9 P.M. EDT, sponsored by the Mercury-Lincoln Dealers. 




YOUNG MAN 
A HURRY 




20 



Jay Barney may not be a millionaire like 
Helen Trent's Kurt Bonine, but he knows where 
he's going— and is literally scooting on his way 




By DIANE ISOLA 

When multi-billionaire Kurt 
Bonine entered Helen's life, 
in CBS Radio's daytime dra- 
ma, The Romance Of Helen Trent, 
more than a year ago, listeners 
perked up. "He's interesting," they 
wrote. "Who is Jay Barney who 
plays the part? We like him." 

The popular show's rating rose 
higher, zooming to first place among 
fifteen-minute radio programs. Jay, 
who had stepped into the new role 
with the understanding that it 
would be for only about six or 
eight weeks, found himself forming 
a long-time love triangle — and lik- 
ing it. To stay with Helen Trent, 
he not (Continued on page 81) 



Evenings at home are rare, for a 
man who often "quadruples" on TV, 
radio, stage and film assignments. 





Jay has two scooters, five motor- 
bikes, totes one piggyback by car 
to have it handy when he's in camp. 







Off hours, he'll read a book from 
his library — or, more likely, work 
in garage on one of the scooters. 








Two lives: As lieutenant colonel (Reserve), Jay teaches film-projectionist 
course for servicemen. As Kurt in The Romance Of Helen Trent, he forms a 
triangle with Sil Whitney (David Gothard, left) and Helen (Julie Stevens). 




The Romance Of Helen Trent, starring Julie Stevens in the title role, with Jay Barney 
as Kurt Bonine, is heard over CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, at ]2:30 P.M. EDT. 



21 



YOUNG MAN 
IN A HURRY 




Jay Barney may not be a millionaire like 
Helen Trent's Kurt Bonine, but he knows where 
he's going-and is literally scooting on his way 





Two lives: As lieutenant colonel (Reserve), Joy teaches film-projectionist 
course for servicemen. As Kurt in The Romanci Oj Helen Trent, he forms a 
triangle with Gil Whitney (David Gothard. left) and Helen (Julie Stevens). 




The Romance 0/ Helen Trent, marring Julie Strrrnn in llir title rolr, Willi Jay Barney 
as Kurt Bonine, is heard o>er CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, al 12 Vl P M. EOT 



21 




You, too, can be a contestant for top prizes 
from your favorite TV hosts— if you follow 
these rules— and can fill these qualifications 




Royal duo: Hal March of The $64,000 
Question (left, with Robert Strom) — 
Ralph Story of The $64,000 Challenge 
(seen above with Edward G. Robinson). 

By FRANCES KISH 

The quiz kings! Long may they 
reign, say millions of viewers 
who sit glued to their TV sets, 
diverted by constantly amazing 
feats of knowledge and skill performed 
on these shows — and wondering: 
How could I get on? Or how could 
I get my relatives, my best girl or 
boyfriend, a chance to get on? 



22 




QUIZ KINGS face to face! 




Jack Barry referees Twenty-One. Contenders (like Mrs. Vivienne Nearing 
and Charles Van Doren) pass written exams to appear on nighttime show. 



Sam Levenson quizzes informal-type contestants on Two For The Money. 
Dr. Mason Gross (far left), judges their answers to average-type questions. 



Test is easier for Tic Tac Dough, 
as conducted by Barry on weekdays. 

Continued 



Groucho Marx quips with VIP's and 
"just folks" on You Bet Your Life. 



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You, too, can be a contestant for top prizes 
from your favorite TV hosts— if you follow 
these rules-and can fill these qualifications 



Meet the 



QUIZ KINGS face to face! 




Royal duo: Hal March of The $64,000 
Question (left, with Robert Strom)— 
Ralph Story of The $64,000 Challenge 
(seen above with Edward G. Robinson). 

By FRANCES KISH 

The quiz kings! Long may they 
reign, say millions of viewers 
who sit glued to their TV sets, 
diverted by constantly amazing 
feats of knowledge and skill performed 
on these shows— and wondering: 
How could I get on? Or how could 
I get my relatives, my best girl or 
boyfriend, a chance to get on? 




Jack Barry referees Twenty-One. Contenders (like Mrs. Vivienne Nearing 
and Charles Van Doren) pass written exams to appear on nighttime show. 



Sam Levenson quizzes informal-type contestants on Two For The Money. 
Dr. Mason Gross (far left), judges their answers to average-type questions. 



Test is easier for Tic Tac Doui/li, 
as conducted by Barry on weekdays. 

Continued 



Groucho Marx quips with VIP's and 
"just folks" on You Ret Your Life. 




Meet the QUIZ KINGS face to face! 



(Continued) 




Well, like getting on in life, getting 
on a quiz show as a contestant seems 
to depend upon a combination of things. 
Ability to be at the required place at 
the right time. A lot of hard work, and 
a little luck. A lot of information and 
knowledge, and more than a little 
stamina. A sense of fun and adventure 
in competition with others, and a sav- 
ing sense of humor. Enough inner 
philosophy to carry on, win or lose, and 
enough sportsmanship to accept either 
outcome with grace. 

All the big winners on the big quiz 
shows have had these attributes. These 
are the "musts" of the game. So, if you 
have been dreaming of displaying your 
knowledge for big — or even medium- 
size — stakes, you can read along and 
check yourself against the require- 
ments. Even if you feel you just 
couldn't face the cameras and micro- 
phones — and those millions of rapt 
viewers — you can still have fun decid- 



George de Witt encourages young man to Name That Tune. Applicants 
come from all walks of life, need only liking for music, listening to lots of it. 



Warren Hull has a hearty welcome for those who 
have real reason for wanting to Strike It Rich. 



The Big Payoff: Bess Myerson, Randy Merriman hold one of gifts 
(including Paris trip!) won by Rev. Arthur Hardge for bride-to-be. 









Bud Collyer outlines a stunt for Beat 
The Clock. Studio audiences provide 
volunteer "stunters" before air time. 



Bill Cullen (with Carolyn Stroupe, 
Beverly Bentley) has rivals guess- 
ing daily if The Price- Is Right. 



Jack Bailey may crown a prince — 
as well as Queen For A Day, chosen 
from audiences and voted by them. 



ing whether you would have a ghost 
of a chance to "make it," if you really 
wanted to. 

Be ready with a good snapshot, or 
other photograph. It will not be re- 
turned, so don't send one you wouldn't 
want to lose. Usually, a clear snap- 
shot will do, but that doesn't mean 
much if it's taken at a hundred feet 
and you're a mere blob of gray down 
at the end of the garden path. Or if 
you're in a group of people and only 
part of your face peers over some- 
one else's shoulder. And smiling faces 
are better than too-serious ""or sad 
ones. The smile shows how you will 



look when you win on the program! 
It goes without saying that, if you 
are now twenty or thirty, the photo 
should not be snipped from your 
grade-school graduation picture or 
taken on your sixteenth birthday. If 
your hair has turned to silver, be real- 
istic and send a recent photo. The 
same goes for a woman who has com- 
pletely changed her hair-do, or a man 
or woman who has gained or lost 
considerable weight. Too fancy or 
fanciful photos will get you nowhere. 
A girl in 'a bubble bath, a man 
wrapped in a leopard skin, a nurse 
in operating mask with only the eyes 



showing — these have all been re- 
ceived by quiz programs! Such pic- 
tures may cause merriment in the mail 
room but will be of no help in getting 
you on. Be reasonable! 

Let's start now with the first of the 
really big-money shows, The $64,000 
Question, the one that began the pa- 
rade. If, as you read ahead, you de- 
cide it is even tougher to get on than 
you thought, remember that Hal 
March, the fabulously successful 
master of ceremonies for this show, 
didn't get on the easy way, either. 
He was among more than three hun- 
dred con- (Continued on page 74) 



Art Linkletter loves to prove People Are Funny. Show 
sometimes goes out looking for special types of people, 
more often selects from letter-writers and ticket-holders. 



Bob Barker leads Truth Or Consequences participants a 
merry chase. Audience members never know whether they'll 
be picked out — or have already been "framed" in advance! 





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"On divorces," Mike explains, "I 
wouldn't ask specific questions . . . 



My marriages weren't hit-and-run 
affairs ... I think it was mainly a 



matter of growing away from each 
other . . . This marriage will last." 




"Early in my career, I felt trapped 
by money. I was unhappy. I wasn't 



fulfilled ... I wanted to accomplish 
something I could be proud of . . . 



I think we are accomplishing some- 
thing with the interviews on TV." 



You can "expect the unexpected" on 
his ABC-TV show. Here, in print, 
Mike answers the personal ques- 
tions he wouldn't even ask of others! 

By GREGORY MERWIN 

When Leonard Goldenson, President of American 
Broadcasting Company, contracted with Mike 
Wallace to do his interviews on the ABC -TV 
network, he knew that he wasn't signing up a namby- 
pamby, how-are-you-darling reporter. In the seven 
months before the show went network, Mike had 
dug deep into the social, political and moral conscience 
of several hundred big-name individuals over 
WABD, the Du Mont-owned TV station in New York. 
On camera, a "private eye" revealed that he never 
felt any regrets when he (Continued on page 83) 

The Mike Wallace Interview is seen over ABC-TV, Sundays, from 
10 to 10:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Philip Morris Cigarettes. 




Mike doesn't care for night clubs, likes making his 
own fun at home — as in this music session with wife 
Lorraine and Ted Yates, Jr M the Interview producer. 



27 



He 9 sWaikin 9 onAir... 




28 



Ozzie and Harriet have always had it. Now Ricky Nelson 
has a portion of success all his own . . . 



By FREDDA BALLING 



This is the way it happened: 
Ricky Nelson was strumming 
his dad's guitar and singing "for 
my own amazement," one after- 
noon between setups for The New 
Adventures Of Ozzie And Harriet, 
when a scout for the rhythm-and- 
blues department of a recording 
company strolled onto the sound 
stage. Not bad, the scout thought, 
in reference to the choppy beat 
and the pleasant timbre of the 
voice. Not bad at all. So he trailed 
the sound to its source. 

Shortly thereafter, the release of 
a disc bearing "I'm Walkin'," a 
rock 'n' roller, on one side — and 
"Teenagers' Romance," a ballad, 
on the flip — catapulted Eric Hil- 
liard Nelson into personally-earned 
prominence as one of the youngest 
of today's singing idols. 

In the offing, as this goes to press, 
is a twelve-platter -per-year re- 
cording contract sporting a hand- 
some maximum royalty clause. 
One of the first responsibilities of 
the recording star is to get out and 
plug his discs before his most likely 
audience. So, natch, his recording 
company made arrangements for 
Ricky to appear at a Los Angeles 
high school, backed by the Four 
Preps (noted for their recording of 
"Dreamy Eyes" for Capitol). 

When Ricky arrived, he noted — 
in a sort of unbelieving blur — that 
the windows facing the area in 
which he had parked seemed to be 
crowded with the bobbing balloons 
of human faces. "Well ... it sur- 
prised me. ... I guess word got 
around the school that entertain- 
ment was coming . . . still, you 
don't expect ... I mean it was all 
great, just great," says Eric Hil- 
liard Nelson. 

Then, when the curtain was 
opened to reveal the assembly 
stage, the roof took off at the same 
time. For (Continued on page 79) 





The Nelsons — Ozzie, David, Ricky, Harriet— take fame 
lightly, after a decade together in the spotlight. (They 
also seemed impervious to birthday hints — till Ricky got 
his guitar!) But, even so, Ricky gets a real charge out 
of tuning in his own record on a deejay program, while 
actresses Gail Land (below left) and Myrna Fahey beam. 



: : 



The New Adventures Of Ozzie And Harriet — 
together with their sons, David and Ricky 
Nelson — is seen over ABC-TV, Wednesday, at 
9 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Eastman Kodak. 





66 



TRY THESE 



99 



Last year a TV columnist wrote: "Most improbable 
i publicity of the week — Mrs. Arthur Murray bakes 
before going to the office." So I sent her some of the 
day's browned offerings and the lady ate her words! 
Sure, I bake early in the morning. I'm up with the birds, 
anyway, and it isn't cricket to arrive at the office before 
your secretary. I bake often, too, because I have a steady 
customer. My husband Arthur eats cake for breakfast, 
lunch, dinner, and in between times. His favorite is honey 
cake, and I hope you'll try my recipe. I developed it by 
trial and failure — it was never "as good as Mother used to 
make," but now it brings me compliments and is finished 
to the last crumb. 

Yes, it's fun to bake and cook — when you don't have 
to turn out three meals a day. (That's work, brother! If 
your wife does it, give her a gold star — and take her out 
to dinner wearing it.) My kind of cooking is pure "ham." 
I show off with it for occasional guests and for dinners at 
home only once or twice a week. We don't have a real 



household anymore — our twin daughters are both mar- 
ried, and Arthur and I five in a small apartment. When 
we don't have a date with friends, we eat when we're 
ready, usually quite late. 

If I haven't been rehearsing for an acrobatic TV act (in 
other words, if I still have a clean face), we may eat in a 
delightfully de-luxe restaurant. If I'm tired, we go home 
and I cook. That is relaxation for me. Blessings on the 
freezing compartment — there is always food in the refrig- 
erator. 

Incidentally, Arthur likes to get in the act, too. And 
when you've been happily married as long as I have — for 
thirty-two years — you have learned to "give stage" to 
your mate. I have included Arthur's hamburger method 
along with some of my specialties. I'm such an eager 
beaver that I wish TV Radio Mirror had room for all my 
favorites — baked young chickens, spicy gingerbread 
muffins, date-and-nut torten, sponge cake, brownies, and 
the sugar cookies I bake for my five grandchildren. 



HAMBURGERS ARTURO 

For 3 very large hamburgers, mix lightly with 2 forks: 

1 pound coarsely ground top sirloin 
% teaspoon salt 

Sprinkle well with Ac'cent (monosodium glutamate) 
and freshly ground black pepper. Stir in with forks: 
2 tablespoons tomato juice bits of finely chopped 

chopped parsley onion, if desired 

bits of crisp bacon (dancers don't) 

Form into 3 large patties. Place on plate, cover with wax 
paper and refrigerate until 1 hour before dinner. Sprinkle 
a heavy ungreased iron skillet well with salt. Heat, cov- 
ered, until drop of water will bounce from salted surface. 
Remove cover, increase heat, and place patties in pan. 
Cover. For very rare meat, cook on one side 2 x /2 minutes, 
turn to cook on other side for 2 minutes. (Mrs. Murray 
tucks a teaspoon prepared mustard in the center.) 

CHEESE BLINTZES 



Makes about 14 pancakes. 

Beat well, using a fork: 
6 eggs 

Combine: 
4 tablespoons flour 



Vn teaspoon salt 
2 tablespoons water 



Gradually add to 1 cup of the beaten egg. Then add to 
remaining beaten egg. (This method prevents lumping.) 
Cover work table near stove with wax paper. Heat a 6- 
inch iron skillet very gradually until a small amount of 
butter will sizzle. Tip, so butter will grease pan thinly 
and evenly. Pour off any excess butter. Hold handle of 
pan with your left hand as you pour in enough batter to 
make a thin layer that will just cover the pan. Turn your 




left hand back and forth as you are pouring, so that the 
pan will be covered quickly and evenly. If your pan is 
correctly heated, the thin pancake should start bubbling 
almost immediately. Give the pancake just a few seconds 
until "set" and then invert pan over wax paper so that 
pancake will drop out, raw side down, cooked side up. 
Continue in this manner until all batter is used. Prepare 
filling by combining: 

1 pound cottage cheese dash salt 

V2 beaten egg dash pepper 

Blend well. Place a heaping tablespoon in center of 
each pancake. Roll pancakes and place in narrow greased 
baking dish. This may be placed in refrigerator until 
ready to bake. Just before serving, place in moderate 
oven (350°F.) 20-25 minutes. Serve with sour cream, 
cinnamon and assorted fruit jams. Makes 3-4 servings. 

HONEY CAKE 

Mix together very well: 

4 tablespoons butter V2 cup sugar 

% cup honey 
Add: 
4 eggs, well beaten grated rind of an orange 

X A teaspoon salt 1 cup large walnut pieces 

Mix and sift twice: 



2 cups sifted cake flour 

1V2 teaspoons baking powder 



Vi teaspoon baking soda 
3 heaping teaspoons powdered 
instant coffee 

Stir flour into egg mixture slowly and well. Spread 
batter in shallow greased pan (10" x 15"). Bake in mod- 
erate oven (325°F.-350°F.) 45 minutes. Cut in squares 
when cold. (Like all honey cakes, this tastes better when 
at least 48 hours old. If kept in tins, it will stay fresh and 
good for several weeks.) 



The Arthur Murray Party is seen on NBC-TV, Mem., 9:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Bristol-Myers Co. for Bufferin, Ipana, and Ban. 



30 




EGGS BAKED IN CREAM 

For each serving, butter individual casseroles. Break 2 
fresh eggs into each casserole. Season with salt, freshly 
ground black pepper and a dash each of cinnamon and 
tarragon. Cover with heavy cream. Bake in moderate 
oven (350°F.) 20 minutes. For a browned top, place un- 
der broiler a few seconds. Serve with buttered toasted 
raisin bread or rye bread and crisp bacon. 



L 



1 




Hostess at home, as well as on TV, Kathryn 
loves preparing these "husband-tested" 
recipes. ("Husband" in the case is, of course, 
famed dance maestro Arthur Murray!) 



31 




' . ■ ' 



WKMH's Bobbin' With Robin proved Michi- 
gan is for Mineo. Crowds at Detroit's Edge- 
water Park overwhelmed Robin Seymour (below 
left) and Sal, almost broke up the telecast. 




MINEO'S 

Really Moving 

At 18, sensational Sal is headed in 
exciting new directions on TV, 
records, radio, films — and home life 



By HELEN BOLSTAD 

It's a time for big changes in the life of Sal Mineo, the 
eighteen-year-old actor who has earned an enviable 
reputation in the movies for his sensitive portrayal 
of adolescent change. Sal's prospective changes in his 
own life are happy ones: He is going to college, he and 
his family will soon have a lovely new house, he has 
radio and television appearances planned, and — best 
of all — he has entered the recording field and produced 
a smash hit with his first record. 

Anyone who believes in the return of bread cast 
upon the waters can find pleasant confirmation in the 
story of how Sal came to record. In shouldering his 
share of the Mineo family duties, Sal was once chief 
baby-sitter for his pretty little sister Sarina. Last year, 
another baby-sitter started the ball rolling for Sal's 
recording contract. 

It happened in Glenside, Pennsylvania, when Arnold 
Maxin and his wife, Elaine, called in vivacious Mary 
Fitzgerald to stay with their little daughters, Amy and 
Marjorie. 

On arrival, Mary was bubbling with enthusiastic plans 
to start a new fan club (Continued on page 86) 



Home in New York, between telecasts, tours and movies, 
Sal relaxes with his drums, the car his folks gave him on 
his. eighteenth birthday this year, and his dog, "Bimbo." 



"Lucky" rings are a Mineo tradition. Kid sister Sarina 
got the latest one, proudly displays it to Sal, brother 
Victor and their mother — who began custom years ago. 





I 




Trio looks just as pretty as it sings on Godfrey 
shows and Coral records. At Las Vegas' Desert Inn, 
above — as in portrait on opposite page — the left- 
to-right order is Christine, Phyllis and Dorothy. 




Even a husband can't tell their voices apart — it 
happens to be Phyl talking, above. Dot's in white, 
Chris in slinky satin, during a rehearsal "break." 




To the McGuires, being a trio— 
whether as singers in the spotlight 
or just sisters in private— is a 
picnic, a panic, a sorority of fun 

By MARTIN COHEN 



Six slim legs, three radiant smiles, six melting 
brown eyes — plus the usual standard female 
equipment — adds up to three hundred and fifty - 
four pounds of the prettiest (and best) trio in the 
country. These long-stemmed beauties, known as 
The McGuire Sisters, are not triplets — but are as 
much alike as peas in a pod. Facially, there's a 
difference. But let the gals turn their heads — or talk 
to them on the phone — and you don't know who's 
who. 

"Even Mother can't tell us apart on the telephone," 
says Phyllis. "Chris's husband, John Teeter, may 
call the apartment and Chris answers — but he's so 
uncertain, he's got to ask, 'Is this you, Chris?' " 

"Just the other afternoon," says Dot, "Chris and I 
were walking right ahead of John. We had on sport 
outfits, skirts and shirts. John came up and, in a 
cute little way, zipped the zipper on my skirt — and, 
when I turned around, he said, 'Oh, I thought you 
were Chris.' He was so embarrassed!" 

Continued k 






34 






n 



Busy as anyone in show biz, Chris, Phyl and Dot McGuire , 
have to rely on each other for jokes and fun. "We never 
get lonesome," they chorus. Playing such "dates" as Las 
Vegas, they can get in the swim — and the sun — together. 



(Continued) 



"Do you remember," Phyllis asks, "when John was 
dating Chris and we all went along on their dates? 
And we were in a kind of half-lighted night club? 
Well, we came out of the ladies' room and I sat down 
beside John — and he thought it was Chris and squeezed 
my hand." 

That's the way it goes when you're three sisters who 
look alike, dress alike, think alike, work together and 
sometimes date together (as Phyl noted, when John 
Teeter was just in the dating stage with Chris, sisters 
Phyl and Dot went along). 

"How do we feel about it?" Chris echoes. "Well, I 
knew I'm speaking for all three of us. We get along 
well and have been together so long that we need each 
other. But sometimes I think I would just like to dis- 
appear for a week and not let anyone know where I 
am — and then come back and say, casual as can be, 
'Hi, everybody.' " 

"I feel that way often, too," Phyllis chimes in. "But 
when I'm alone, I dislike it very much. When we're 
apart, we immediately get on the phone. We just can't 






stand not to know what the others are doing. If we're 
apart for one afternoon, we discuss every detail of 
what's happened to us, as though we hadn't seen each 
other in months." 

Chris smiles and says, "Phyl's always nosy. She 
calls our room, if she hasn't seen us for an hour or two, 
to find out what we're doing." 

Yet there are still people around who want to know 
whether the McGuires are really sisters. As one of 
them is always sure to answer that question: "How can 
you doubt it, when we had the same mother and 
rather?" Their father and mother are Asa and Lilly 
McGuire. Mother is an ordained minister; father, a 
steel worker. Home was Miamisburg, Ohio. Asa 
McGuire wanted boys — at least one — but found that 
three girls could make you just as proud and be every 
bit as much of a handful. 

Chris was born on July 30, 1928. Dot and Phyllis 
followed at year-and-a-half intervals. They were close 
enough in age to play together and sing as a group. 
When Phyllis was four, they (Continued on page 67) 



36 




Phyl's the "baby" of the family, the sleepyhead who 
has to be roused by her sisters. Chris is the eldest 
and does all their shopping. Dot is the "middle one" 
and models for fittings and hairdressing experiments. 





Between shows on tour — left to right, in usual trio for- 
mation — Chris, Phyl and Dot discuss next stop with man- 
ager-arranger-conductor Murray Kane (above), catch 
up on musical "homework" in their hotel suite (below). 




The McGuire Sisters are frequent guests on Arthur Godfrey Time, as heard over CBS Radio, Monday through Friday, from 10 to 11:30 
A.M. EDT, and seen on CBS-TV, Monday through Thursday, from 10:30 to 11:30 A.M. EDT, under multiple sponsorship. 



37 



Spike's "musical depreciation" experts can play real instruments — when they want to! Above, drummer- 
boy Jones with banjoists Jad Paul (left) and Freddie Morgan; standing — Brian Farnon, sax; Phil Gray, 
trombone; George Rock, trumpet; Eddie Robertson, tuba; Gil Bernal, sax; Mousie Garner, soprano sax. 
Below, right: Beauty and the Big Beat — singing star Helen Grayco with husband Spike and Gil Bernal. 





a Slightly Reformed Character 



: 




Normal as any home-loving man, with his Spike Junior, Leslie Ann 
and Helen — as friends say, their lovely house is "awfully square" 
for an offbeat guy like Mr. Jones. (But not all the paintings on 
their walls are as graciously formal as that portrait of Helen.) 

By MAURINE REMENIH 

When The Spike Jones Show hit the TV tubes last 
spring, viewers in living rooms from Penobscot to 
Port Hueneme exchanged surprised glances of 
disbelief. Could this be Spike Jones, the "musical 
depreciation" kid? The boy who spoofed Beethoven, 
Brahms and Bach? The same character who integrated 
pistol shots, automobile horns and doorbells into 
his arrangements? 

The new show contained a couple of ballads sung by . 
Mrs. Jones (Helen Grayco, to you) and about ten minutes 
of the old Spike Jones madness. But the rest of the 
half-hour, Spike played it straight. Good, tuneful, 
danceable — and straight. 

But Lindley Armstrong Jones knew what he was 
doing. As he pointed out to one protesting fan who 
wailed for more of the "old" (Continued on page 70) 



But Spike Jones isn't really 
"going straight" — not when there 
are so many other ways of 
going Wound and 'round the music 




House is white Colonial, but Spike's partial fo 
black for his clothes — calls this his "race-track 
outfit." Below, spinning plastic "pie tins," Spike 
swears his aim would be better throwing real pies! 




He Will Never Be a Has-Been! 



Slipping? Going highbrow? Elvis Presley 
meets the rumor-mongers head on, 
with new-found confidence and maturity 

By EUNICE FIELD 

It's a story his family likes to tell. When Elvis 
was only ten, he swerved his bike to avoid hitting a 
cat. He fell against a telephone pole, and his mother — . 
who had seen it from a window — came running. 
"Are you hurt?" she asked anxiously. The boy rubbed 
his shins. "Sure, I'm hurt," he said. Then, taking 
her hand, he squeezed it reassuringly: "Don't worry, 
Mama ... I ain't a-gonna cry." 

Now that he is twenty-two and a movie star, 
Elvis lounges in his green-and-brown dressing room 
(furnished with Spartan simplicity) and discusses with 
a reporter and the publicity man assigned to his new 
M-G-M film, "Jailhouse Rock," the big question 
so many newspapers and magazines have been asking: 
Is Elvis Presley going highbrow — and is he slipping? 

Continued k 




Rumors aren't spread by those who work with Elvis. They 
are his most sincere boosters. Above, at Paramount, with 
Lizabeth Scott and Hal Wallis, producer of "Loving You." 
At right, performing — and listening to a record playback. 




He Will Never Be a Has-Been! 



(Continued) 




Quiet, polite, hard-working — that's how everyone has found Elvis on 
the movie lots. No complaints about rehearsals, fittings or all the many 
details of his phenomenal success on records, films, TV, radio, personal 
appearances. Presley's moving fast — with Uncle Sam planning his future. 



The reporter puts the question bluntly 
and Elvis smiles so calmly that she wonders, 
Has he been asking himself the same 
thing? "Well," he says, "it's the same 
people. At first, they said I'd never make it. 
Then I was a rocket and wouldn't stay up. 
Now they're saying I'm getting too smart, 
I'm on the bumpy road down. I'd have 
answered them before now, but I didn't 
think it was worthwhile." 

Doesn't he believe in striking back? 
"It's not that. If I was worried, I suppose I 
would hit back. If that was all they said. 
But some of the stuff they say is pretty 
raw. I'm not made of stone, and they hurt. 
But no matter." Obviously, Elvis still 
"ain't a-gonna cry." 

The triple-threat star of movies, tele- 
vision and recordings may not be wasting 
time on self-pity, but he knows that he 
still has a hard fight to keep his place in the 
sun. As the most brilliant of the younger 
stars, he is fair game for the jealous, the 
prudish, the fickle. His eyes flash restlessly 
about the dressing room. "I've told this 
to myself a lot of times: If the day comes 
when I can't give the best in me — or if the 
best I've got doesn't please an audience — 
I'll pull out without being asked. I'll 
never let myself become a has-been!" 

The force with which this pledge is given 
quickly melts into a quiet reverie. 
"As to this stuff about 'slipping' and 
'going highbrow' — well, I'd rather let other 
people answer that (Continued on page 77) 



42 








Headlines — good and bad — have pursued Elvis throughout his career. Most startling and tragic 
was the sudden death of little Judy Tyler in a car crash with her husband, last July Fourth. She had 
just completed her role as Presley's leading lady in this third movie, M-G-M's "Jailhouse Rock." 





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Elvis still inspires jealousy in devoted fans' hearts, when pictured with 
such pretty girls as Dolores Hart (left), the romantic interest in 
"Loving You," and Jana Lund, teenager also in the Paramount film. 
Picture at right proves there are no age limits for Presley admirers. 




Julie finds bitter need of all the courage 

and insight she has shared with others, as she 

prepares to follow her heart ... far from 



Wulie waked, and so ended the happiness she'd known 
** in her dream. It faded as she opened her eyes. 
There was bright sunshine streaming in her bedroom 
windows, and the birds sang outside. But the real world, 
to Julie, was a very dreary business of clinging to a 
meager hope. The world she'd awakened to bore little 
resemblance to the one of her dream. Phil had been her 
dream. 

In waking, she'd lost him. Her throat ached with 
loneliness. Her hands wanted to clench in impotent 
rebellion. She faced another day with bitter reluctance. 
The sunshine offered mockery rather than cheer. 

But then, somehow, she saw herself as she was, and 
what she had done to make a morning's waking so bleak 
a thing. With an abrupt clarity, she remembered long 
years back, in her early widowhood, when she'd tried 
to live on memories after her happiness was gone. Now 
she saw that she'd been trying to live on hopes of happi- 
ness to come. But the human spirit does not thrive on 
either memory or hope, alone. At Hilltop House, where 
the orphaned children often had neither, she'd come to 
know that a full life comes only from the courage to 
face and accept, without flinching, whatever life may 
bring. 

Now she deliberately unclenched her hands. She sat 
up. She got out of bed and went across to her mirror. 
She faced herself in it. Her face looked drawn, though 
she'd just awakened. She stared at herself and willed 
for courage to come. She'd taught her charges at Hill- 
top House that, if one clamped one's jaws tightly, and 
squared one's shoulders, and doggedly resolved not to 
give in. . . . 

It worked. In minutes, she felt better. There was no 
change in the real situation, of course. It was still weeks 
since the second letter from Phil, and he was still in 
South America, thousands of miles away. But now she 
remembered that Phil had written her from there. He 
realized that he'd been cruel, though without that in- 
tention, when he'd written from New York just before 
his disappearance. Then he'd said grimly that his 
brother's plans had succeeded and he was ruined finan- 
cially. That their marriage had become impossible. 
That, rather than put her through the ordeal of saying 
goodbye, he was writing her of the ending of all hope 
of a future together. He was going away. He did not 



say where. There had not been even a hint. 

Looking at her own reflection, standing in her night- 
dress in the bedroom, Julie saw herself wince. The 
days and weeks after that first letter had been very bad 
indeed. Phil's disaster was needless. It was the result 
of his own brother's machinations. His brother Lloyd, 
who bitterly believed that Phil had tried to be a second 
Cain and murder him, and who fiercely tried to avenge 
it. He'd brought about Phil's business defeat and finan- 
cial ruin. And, since Phil was a proud man, he'd de- 
stroyed Julie's hope of happiness, too. , 

A window curtain billowed in the breeze beside an 
open window. The air was clean and fresh and good. 
With summoned courage, Julie drove her thoughts on- 
ward. Things were better now. But, for a long time 
after that New York letter, she'd been dazed. She be- 
lieved Phil gone from her life for always — after she had 
emptied it of everything else, so she could fill it with 
him. Her place as head of Hilltop House was now some- 
one else's. She herself had picked Karen Whitfield as 
her replacement. Her friendship with David, and the 
affection of his teen-age daughter Felicia, had seemed 
small things to give up, when she expected to go to* 
South America with Phil to begin a new career as his 
wife. Even the professional distinction she had valued 
most — a plaque which was an award for distinguished 
service to children — she expected to keep packed away 
in some trunk, because only Phil and his needs and 
happiness were to count for her in the future. 

A mockingbird outside her window ran through his 
repertory of the songs of other birds. He came to the dis- 
cordant cawing of a crow, and was less than successful. 
His own critical ear led him to attempt, repeatedly, to 
better it. The sound formed a sort of sardonic back- 
ground to Julie's thoughts. But she would not let it turn 
them. 

She began to brush her hair, still before the mirror 
and watching her face for a lessening of the courage 
she'd had to summon by an act of will. Things were 
much better since Phil's second letter. That had come 
from South America, and now was read almost to tatters. 
This second time, he wrote that he hadn't meant to be 
cruel when all his affairs and all his success crashed 
through the carefully contrived scheming of his brother 
Lloyd. He did love her. He'd (Continued on page 63) 



Hilltop House is heard over NBC Radio, Monday through Friday, at 3:30 P.M. EDT, as sponsored by Quaker Oats, Carter's Little Liver 
Pills, Arrid, and others. Jan Miner is pictured on the opposite page in her starring role as Julie. 



A FICTION BONUS 



44 



Ft 




t 



*>- 







COME TO THE 



! 




Hard to entertain the younger set? 
Grownups and children alike can 
enjoy the kind of planning which is 
done for, fun at The Mace School 



Social activities at The Mace School are twice as enjoyable for 
students because they help draw up the plans. Above, committee for 
year's biggest party — the Eighth Grade Prom, at graduation time — 
goes over the agenda with Mrs. Frieda Mace and Emile P. Faustin. 





Guests arrive at Copacabana Club for "grown-up" 
Prom. About half are young actors, such as TV 
twins Luke and Marina Solito de Solis (above at 
right), Ron McLaren and Bonnie Sawyer (below). 



Later, the committee of students meets "on its own." As pictured 
here, from left to right, members include Charles Avona, Frank 
Wieszner, Marina Solito de Solis, Fern Breslow, Pidgie Jamieson. 
Unlike most parties outlined in story, this one is to be jormall 



46 




AID OF VOUR PARTV 




Round-table chat at the Copa — where girls get opportunity to display their most 
formal finery, and boys practice their best party manners. Left to right: Joy Lee, 
Billy Carroll, Betty Sue Albert, Maurice Hines (class president, often seen with 
brother Gregory on such TV shows as Jackie Gleason's), Marina, Ron and Bonnie. 



By MARY TEMPLE 



To be the "mother" of 115 children from the first to the 
eighth grades, to educate them and keep them busy, 
happy and well-adjusted, would seem job enough for any 
woman. To plan and give parties for such a brood, or 
any part of it, might seem an added super-job. Not to 
Mrs. Frieda Mace, however. And her experience and 
know-how can be invaluable to any parent, older sister 
or brother, who's responsible for seeing that the younger 
set has a good time before, during and after a really 
successful "children's party." (Even baby-sitters can 



learn a trick or two for keeping youngsters amused.) 
Mrs. Mace is head of The Mace School, in New York* 
whose pupils include some of the best-known and busiest 
young actors and actresses in television and radio, 
theater and movies, and an equal number of non -profes- 
sional youngsters who are not yet preparing for any 
career, in or out of the theater. All of them children 
whose parents want to see them grow up with a back- 
ground of good education and good manners, with fun 
and parties to look back upon in later years. 



L 



See Next Page- 



47 




COME TO THE AID OF YOUR PARTY 

(Continued) 



At the school, all of them are on the same footing, the 
only difference being a more flexible study schedule for 
those who have acting jobs and cannot always conform 
to the usual school routine. None are singled out for 
extracurricular achievements. "The closest we have 
ever come to that," Mrs. Mace says, "was when Patty 
McCormack played Helen Keller as a child in a Playhouse 
90 dramatization on television this year, and the children 
were particularly thrilled because one of their number 
had the chance to portray a woman they love and respect 
so much. When Patty left us to go to California, we all 
missed her. 

"I really feel like the mother of a large family, where 
no child can take the place of any other. Each is dear to 
me, for his or her own sake. We have no professional 
talk in our school, no professional jealousies, no competi- 
tion among the children who act and those who don't. 
When the boys and girls get together at school parties, 
or among themselves at the various homes, they have 
the kind of fun that belongs by right to the wonderful, 
carefree pre-teen and early teen years. What they are 
is what counts, not what they do outside the school." 

Bonnie Sawyer, the Kim of Valiant Lady, was gradu- 
ated from Mace this year with the Good Fellowship 
Award as the outstanding all-around good sport of her 
class. Lynn Lorring, the Patti of CBS -TV's Search For 
Tomorrow and also on CBS Radio in The Second Mrs. 
Burton, was president of her graduating class in 1955. 
Maurice Hines — who, with his brother Gregory, has been 
on the Gleason and other big shows, at clubs in Las 
Vegas, at the Moulin Rouge in Paris — is this year's gradu- 
ating-class president, while Gregory plans to go on 
with his studies at the school. Jada Rowland, Amy in 
CBS-TV's The Secret Storm, is a last year's graduate, 
and her brother Jeffrey is still in school. 

Three of Mama's TV children are Mace pupils: Toni 
Campbell, who is Dagmar; Susan Rohall, who is Ingeborg; 
and Kevin Coughlin, who plays young T.R. So are such 
other in-demand young actors as Betty Sue Albert; Peter 
Lazer; Pidgie Jamieson; the Solito de Solis twins, Luke 



What's a gala prom to a girl — without a corsage? Mrs. 
Mace helps pin one on Bonnie Sawyer, long familiar to TV 
viewers as younger daughter Kim Emerson in Valiant Lady. 




Primping is an important part of feminine fun, at any age. 
Here, Joy Lee watches as Betty Sue Albert adjusts necklace 
for Toni Campbell — who is known on TV as Mama's Dagmar. 



Pretty Dawn Wilson, Robert Haight, Toni Campbell and 
Donald Dilworth are on their best behavior — and having 
wonderful time, too, thanks to wise planning in advance. 



48 








Dancing's a teen-age treat any time, formal or informal. Charles, Toni, Maurice and 
Betty Sue sip ginger ale as Joy and Ron try Copa floor — to "live" music, not records! 






and Marina; Beverly Lunsford, who plays Bebe in CBS- 
TV's The Edge Of Night. Nina Reader, the little British 
girl who is in Search For Tomorrow; and Zina Bethune, 
Robin in CBS -TV's The Guiding Light, have been Mace 
students. Lydia Reed, of many dramatic TV roles, who 
also played Grace Kelly's sister in "High Society"; Kippy 
Campbell and Robin Essen; Claudia Crawford of the Ray 
Bolger Show. Ronald McLaren, who graduated this year; 
Pat Di Simone, who graduated last year. Jan Handzlik, 
Barry Towsen and Stanley Grochowski of the Broadway 
cast of "Auntie Mame"; Eileen Merry; Kathy Dunn and 
Susan Reilly of the Broadway cast of "Uncle Willie"; 
Dick Clemence, of stage and TV; Toby Stevens of "The 
King and I." And many others who, by the nature of 
their work, sometimes must continue their studies by 
tutoring, or even by correspondence at times. Many who 
come back with report cards from advanced classes, eager 
to show Mrs. Mace what they are doing and make her 
feel proud of them and their continued progress. 



To get back to parties: The last big one of the season 
each year is the Eighth Grade Prom, in June, held in re- 
cent years at the famous Copacabana Club in New York, 
an extra-special privilege for the graduating class. That 
started when Mrs. Mace asked the management of the 
club if she could bring a group which she had been tutor- 
ing, and the children behaved so well in this adult atmos- 
phere that succeeding classes have been welcomed back. 

Most of the parties, however, are the kind any mother 
or older sister can give in her own home and any child 
can help plan and prepare. "If it's a child's party, especi- 
ally an older girl or boy, ninety percent of it should be 
decided by the child," is Frieda Mace's belief. "This im- 
mediately creates an interest and a desire to help. It 
teaches a great deal also — good host manners, respon- 
sibility, teamwork. It brings out creative ability. At the 
school, for parties of any size, we have 'committees,' an 
idea any mother could adapt for a big neighborhood or 
community party, a fund-raising (Continued on page 72) 



| 



49 



Young Dick Jones met his Betty when he was 15, knew right off she was the girl 
for him — for life. They're more sure of it now than ever, in their Burbank home 
with daughters Jennafer (left) and Melody, sons Jeff (Jennafer's twin) and Rick. 




Keeping Up With The 

JONESES 

Dick has a whole passel of 
lively young 'uns at home— who 
all adore Buffalo Bill, Jr. 



By GORDON BUDGE 



50 



Sunday morning at ten o'clock, you'll find Dick Jones — 
personable young Buffalo Bill, Jr., of the two-to-teen 
set — suited out in his best go-to-meetin' clothes, perched 
squarely in the middle of the front pew of Hollywood's 
First Presbyterian Church. With the shy smile that has 
thrown a lariat around several million hero-hungry hearts, 
Dick says in his easy Texas drawl, "I sit down front so's I 
can stretch my legs 'way out and see what's going on better." 

A more precise answer would tell you that Dick and his 
lovely wife Betty for years have enjoyed squatters' rights 
on that front seat because they are the sort of young people 
who literally want to get as close to their religion as they can. 

When Gene Autry and Armand Schaefer, Buffalo Bill, Jr.'s 
executive producer, put their heads together to pick 
a Hollywood actor for the title role, they couldn't have 
selected any one more fitting than Dick. As written, 
Buffalo Bill, Jr. is a young man of great integrity and high 
moral character. His chief responsibility is looking after his 
younger sister Calamity, as played by Nancy Gilbert. 
Dick watches over Nancy herself (Continued on page 65) 



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Buffalo Bill, Jr. is ideal role for Dick, who did trick 
riding before he was four, performed many dangerous 
feats as a child movie actor — without a double. 



Today, his own small sons' eyes light up as he puts 
"He's A Dandy" through his paces. They'd love to be 
cowboys — Dick doesn't want them to be performers. 






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Seeing the babies off to bed, or playing bucking 
bronco for Rick outdoors, Dick gives thanks for the 
blessings — and the responsibilities — of a big family. 



Melody, at 7, is already a "little mother" and a big 
help around the house. Dick believes in keeping close 
to all his children, their problems — and their prayers. 



Dick Jones stars in the title role of Buffalo Bill, Jr., a 
Flying A Production. See local papers for time and station. 






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Inside Nashville's Ryman Auditorium on Saturday nights, you'll see 
on stage 1 50 or more Grand Ole Opry performers, as shown in the 
typical picture on the opposite page. This crowd (above) is the 
eager group of spectators, who wait patiently for hours to get in. 




There's music, comedy, dancing. 
Backstage it's a romp. Out front 
it's a riot. And year after year, 
Grand Ole Opry packs 'em in 




Minnie Pearl, in her "yaller" dress and her store-bought hat, can 
always panic the customers with folksy stories about mythical town 
Grinder's Switch. Here she's laughing it up with Ferlin Husky, 
June Carter, and "Stringbean," the man with the low-hung pants. 



Rod Brasfield greets "the Gossip of Grinder's 
Switch," teases Minnie about chasing the boys. 



Down Nashville way, there's a hit running into 
its thirty-third year, and the SRO sign is 
still out. For half an hour Saturday evenings, 
every country-music lover in the country can 
get into the fun via the NBC radio network. Local 
fans collect not only this half -hour nugget of 
fun, but also an extra four-hour session of top 
comedy. For this rib-tickling session, reserved 
tickets are sold out two months in advance. For 
the less fortunate without reserved seats, the 
alternative is to take their chances. And the 
gang starts gathering at three in the afternoon 
for the program which is to start at 7:30 P.M. 
To the veteran performers of Grand Ole Opry, 
this devotion is heartwarming — to a degree which 
makes them knock themselves out to pay back to 
the audience the same love and affection. As a 
result, Grand Ole Opry is less a "show" than it 
is a gathering of good friends of all ages. 

Grand Ole Opry emanates from Nashville over Station 
WSM, each Saturday night, and is heard nationally 
on Monitor, NBC Radio, from 10:30 to 11 P.M. EDT. 

Continued i 




(Continued) 




Gold guitars from Columbia Records 
for Ray Price's "Crazy Arms" and to 
Marty Robbins for "Singin' the Blues." 



Known on air as "Solemn Old 
Judge," George Dewey Hay be- 
gan nucleus of Opry back in 1 925. 



Singer and composer Johnny Cash, 
whose records are on Sun label, belts 
out a rendition of "I Walk the Line." 





! 



54 



Square Dance Time on Grand Ole Opry brings out talented 
Cedar Hill group. Dance is real country-style, fast and fun! 
(At right) Ernest Tubb, one of Opry's mainstays, talks with 
Wilburn Brothers, Doyle and Teddy, about script changes. 



■ 



Grandpa Jones blows off the roof with fast 
go on his five-string banjo. Grandpa's no 
newcomer, has been singing it up since '29. 






Governor Frank Clement of Tennessee is a country-and-Western music buff, 
has turned up more than once on the Grand Ole Opry stage. Here he kids 
the audience at mike, with Hank Snow (left) and Ernest Tubb (right). In 
background are famous singers, the Carter Sisters, and members of band. 



Master guitarist Chet Atkins performs as 
appreciative audience of top singers stands 
by. They're Roy Acuff and visitor Joni James. 





I L ; 



Little Jimmy Dickens, smallest star on Opry, has one of the biggest 
voices. Only 4' II" high, but he pours out a tall amount of song. 
June Carter tries to break up Jimmy's act by rolling up his pants. 
(Left) Lonzo and Oscar with Cousin Jody and Odie spoof the show. 



55 




Can love come to a woman after 35 ? 



She has so much to give -to the man who can give in return. Could it be Gil? 
They might know real love together. But whenever they come close to fulfillment, 
his jealousy tears through their happiness, destroying it. Is Kurt the answer? 
Kurt, so sure, so shrewd. He has the power to hurt, yet a sudden gentleness 
made him say, "I'm starved for all the things you are." Can she choose? You can 
get the whole story -even while you work -when you listen to daytime radio. 
Hear THE ROMANCE OF HELEN TRENT on the CBS RADIO NETWORK. 



56 



Monday through Friday. See your local paper for station and time. 



One Look- 





Two Ways 



The Terry Twins know that looking 
identical wins them attention — and jobs 
— but at times they find it more 
important to accent their individuality 



By HARRIET SEGMAN 



Arlene and Ardelle like to look alike for TV and modeling 
(upper right). In private life (above) they prefer different 
hairdos, necklines, skirt widths, heel heights, jewelry. 



There's such a thing as being too much one, so we 
work deliberately at being individuals," said 
Arlene Terry thoughtfully. Her "other self" 
— Ardelle Terry, Arlene's identical twin — nodded 
agreement. As the hostesses on NBC-TV's Twenty- 
One, the Terrys are probably the country's most- 
seen twin-team. 

"When we learned that everyone thought of us as 
one . . ." started Ardelle, ". . . we realized that 
wouldn't be good for the rest of our lives," finished 
Arlene. They used to rely on one another to end 
sentences. Now they try to see that whoever starts 
talking also winds up the idea. "You have to be 
firm," says Ardelle. "You have to say — look here, 
this is my story, and I'm going to tell it . . . myself." 

For TV and modeling, they own identical ward- 
robes for their twin look. They shop for each other, 
buying two-at-a-time. When going out together 
socially, they dress differently, wear different hairdos. 

Arlene was married recently. Now that they live 
in separate apartments, each Terry has her own 
make-up kit. Before, they used to dip into the same 



cosmetics. They accent their blond coloring with 
beige make-up base and pink lipstick. Their skin- 
types are identical — a duet, or normal skin with an 
oily area around the nose — so they balance cream- 
cleansing with soap-and-water-plus-astringent on 
the oily patch. For quick make-up change on the job, 
both use liquid cleansing cream. They keep their 
fine-grained skins fresh and glowing with a gentle 
facial mask twice a week. 

Like so many girls, Ardelle tends to get hippy if 
she isn't careful. The best hip-slimmer, she finds, is 
simply "walking on the floor sitting down, until you 
feel it." 

Both share sensible diet ideas, stressing big salads — 
lettuce, tomato, cucumber, celery, with just enough 
dressing to wet the leaves. They mix their own 
dressing, soft-pedaling the oil. Menus also concentrate 
on meat, vegetables, greens, dark and high-protein 
breads. "And we snack on cheese and milk instead 
of candy," says Arlene. "Perhaps that's because we're 
from Wisconsin," adds Ardelle — : as soon as she's sure 
Arlene has finished speaking. 



57 



A DOC'S LIFE 

Lassie always behaves like a lady — 
courtesy of trainer Rudd Weatherivax 




Lassie's a prolific sire. In this litter, he hopes to find 
a follower in his paw prints for the day he retires. 




Groomed as a star, Lassie's just like any Fido 
when it's time for a romp with Rudd's grandson. 



58 





Kindness, says Rudd Weatherwax, is the first rule in 
training dogs to do tricks like those Lassie performs. 




Trainer Rudd Weatherwax knew a bargain when he saw one. 
A prankish pup was the runt of a blue-ribbon litter of 
collies. When he developed the bad habit of chasing cars, the 
pup's owner brought him to Rudd. At the end of a week, 
the owner found the peace and quiet of his home so pleasant 
that he asked Rudd to keep the dog — in exchange for the 
training fee of ten dollars. For years, Rudd had trained dogs 
for film work and he taught the collie to sit, lie down, speak, 
retrieve, attack, crawl, open doors, and even yawn. His patience 
was rewarded when M-G-M needed a star for Eric Knight's 
famous dog story, "Lassie Comes Home." A series of other 
"Lassie" films was followed by The Lassie Show, the first radio 
show to star a dog. On TV, Lassie starts its fourth year this 
fall. . . . Lassie, who plays a female dog out of deference to the 
script, lives in an air-conditioned kennel and is fed raw 
beef when working, cooked meat when idle. With Lassie, or 
with any Fido, Rudd suggests four training rules: Kindness, 
patience, guidance (he uses a ten-foot leash at all times 
during training), and reward (a friendly word or a morsel 
of food). "I love kids, too," grins Rudd, the father of three, 
"but they're not as easy to train as dogs." 

Lassie is seen on CBS-TV, Sun., 7 P.M. EDT, sponsored by Campbell's soups. 




MORSELS 
FOR THOUGHT 



Agnes Gibbs of WCSH and WCSH-TV 
serves food for the body — and the mind 



Woman's work is never done and, if the woman is 
Agnes Freyer Gibbs, it's never dull, either. 
Generous in proportions and perspective, Mrs. Gibbs 
is firmly convinced that the kitchen is the heart of 
a home. But, like every good homemaker, Mrs. Gibbs 
is as concerned with the rise and fall of the United 
Nations or of interracial understanding as she is with 
the rise and fall of her favorite cake. In either case, 
she favors a rise. And, where the cake is concerned, 
Mrs. Gibbs' culinary lore leaves no margin for 
error. . . . Every weekday at half-past noon, she shares 
her wide range of interests on Here's Agnes Gibbs, 
heard over Station WCSH in Portland, Maine. Week- 
days at two, she's on camera for WCSH-TV with a 
homemaking program, A Visit With Agnes Gibbs. Her 
guests on these programs have included celebrities 
from the fields of music, theater, writing and art, as 
well as "just plain folks" who have achieved "great- 
ness" in their own communities. ... If many of Agnes 
Gibbs' recipes come from faraway lands, it's only 
natural. Her parents were Protestant missionaries 
and she was born in Beirut. She lived in Syria, Japan 
and Capetown, South Africa, until, at the age of six- 
teen, she came to the United States. She received 
a B.S. in Education from Framingham State Teachers 
College in Massachusetts and was introduced to 
radio through her work as County Home Demonstra- 
tion Agent for the Extension Service. . . . Today, 
Agnes Gibbs lives in a century-old Cape Cod house 
in Gorham, Maine. Other residents on the sixteen 
rambling acres include two dogs named Speckles 
and Percy, a cat named Imp, and a three-year- 
old canary named Jack. . . . One of Mrs. Gibbs' most 
inspiring broadcasting experiences came during a 
forest fire in 1947. At nine in the morning, she asked 
her radio listeners for donations of sandwiches 
for the fire-fighters. By mid-afternoon, fifteen cubic 
feet of sandwiches had been delivered. This heart- 
warming response came even though the delivery 
address was repeated only once. Agnes Gibbs' 
followers are too loyal for her to have to ask twice. 




Men like to cook, too, as J. Scott Smart of radio's 
Fat Man series demonstrated on a visit with Agnes. 




Just before the Alewife Festival Preview, Bob Reny, 
Ray Dunning and Fred Baird stopped by for a fish-fry. 




Timed for the Augusta Kiwanis Pancake Festival, the 
natural guest for Agnes was, of course, Aunt Jemima. 



59 



YOUR PAL 
PALLAN 

That musical signature on 
KDKA signs on the tops in pops 





Art's "outstanding contributions" win a plaque 
from Allegheny County record dealers, a buss 
from wife Agnes, cheers from the family (below). 



60 




Pittsburgh's Art Pallan not only spins records— he makes 'em. 



With fifty thousand watts of Station KDKA 
at his disposal, Art Pallan was speechless — 
with laryngitis. As a beginning of a new job, it was 
inauspicious, particularly after the fanfare that 
had announced that deejay Art was transferring 
from other local mikes. The hoopla had even 
included a film showing Art as guide to "The New 
Pittsburgh" and the airing of Art's show over New 
York's independent WINS, this last to share with 
New York agency time -buyers a knowledge that 
Pittsburgh already had — namely, that "Your Pal 
Pallan's" easy, pleasant style was low on 
gimmicks and high on the best-listening lists. . . . 
Now in fine voice, Art spins records and provides 
household tips each Monday through Saturday 
from 10 to noon. The ladies are joined by the 
rush-hour crowd and the teenagers as Art provides 
music, news, weather and traffic reports each 
weekday from 3 to 7 P.M. And, since that original 
hoarse beginning, the only thing that has separated 
Art's clear tones from his listeners' ears has been 
the Atlantic Ocean, which Art crossed for an on- 
the-scene report of the Hungarian tragedy. . . . 
Modest and likeable, Art was born in Braddock, 
Pennsylvania, some thirty-odd years ago. He 
sang bass in his high-school quartet, started his 
career as a local announcer in 1942, when he was 
graduated from Brentwood High, and, with time 
out for the war, rose to a deejay's rank. Then he 
began singing again, first just limbering up on a 
chorus of somebody else's record, then waxing his 
own. His coupling of "Lonesome" and "Land of 
Dreams" was awarded free to 2,000 people to 
induce charity contributions for Pittsburgh's Chil- 
dren's Hospital. . . . Silent on his outstanding 
war record, Art is vocal about his family. He met his 
wife Agnes when she phoned in a record request. 
Art complied and the calls continued until they 
met in-person and married, just three months 
later. Suburbanites now, they have four children: 
Andrea, 12; Ann, 8; Artha, 7; and Arthur, 2. Art's 
a member of the local Sportsmen's Club and 
wiles away the nen-musical hours with sketching, 
painting, modeling, photography, and sculpting 
figures on apples which, he says, dry to make real- 
istic art forms. His favorite recordings are by 
Como, Nat Cole and Ella Fitzgerald, but he never 
knocks anybody's records. "If you don't like 
'em," says Art, "don't play 'em on the air." 



Sullivan's Travels 

(Continued from page 18) 
Also Rises." I didn't know what to ex- 
pect in Mexico, but I think I had a hazy 
picture of a rather lazy people, judging 
from the caricatures we've seen in Amer- 
ica. Instead, director Henry King told us 
at the studio that the Mexican movie 
staffers and crews were the most compe- 
tent and skilled workers he had ever met. 
He said, too, that their enthusiasm for the 
picture they were engaged in making had 
been a fantastic experience to all of the 
Americans from Hollywood. 

Because of Ed's TV work, which re- 
quires him to travel around the world in 
search of talent, I have been singularly 
fortunate in going to such places as Bra- 
zil, Argentina, Rome, Paris, London, Ma- 
drid, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Honolulu, 
Budapest, Bermuda, Zurich, Berlin, Mu- 
nich, Jamaica, Dublin, Osaka, Brussels, 
Amsterdam and Tokyo. 

Every city was a revelation to us and a 
revision of pre-formed ideas on the peo- 
ple who live there. We've always found 
that people all over the world are pretty 
much the same. The affection of parents 
for their children is identical. The respect 
of people for the moral code embodied in 
the Ten Commandments is identical. We've 
found that people treat you just the way 
you treat them. In other words, it's the 
old story of getting out of life exactly what 
you put into it. Rudeness is the incu- 
bator for rudeness. Friendliness begets 
friendliness. There is no language bar- 
rier that can't be dissolved by a smile. 

Traveling with Ed is very exciting. One 
minute I might be sitting in our apartment 
making a telephone date to have lunch 
with a friend the following day — and the 
instant I hang up the phone, Ed will say, 
"We're going to Europe tomorrow." I never 
ask why or wherefore. As long as I know 
where we're going, I walk into my closet, 
select the appropriate things, and am ready 
to go at a moment's notice. 

This is how Ed and I always travel- 
without any preliminary planning and 
mostly on the spur of the moment. I pre- 
fer it that way. It's much more exciting 
than sitting around planning and making 
elaborate preparations or worrying wheth- 
er you have the right things to wear. 

Ever since we were married, Ed and I 
have done a gr^at deal of traveling. Be- 
cause we don't believe in planning and 
waiting for convenient times, we take ad- 
vantage of every opportunity to go places. 
We're not believers in waiting until we 
have a lot of time, or leisure. We feel it's 
best to travel when you can enjoy it, rather 
than wait until you're rich enough to af- 
ford it. By that time, you're generally too 
sick or feeble to get the most pleasure out 
of it! 

When Ed heard that his show was to be 
pre-empted for the Rodgers and Hammer- 
stein production of "Cinderella" this past 
March 31st, he immediately decided it 
would be a good time to take advantage 
of the opportunity to fly over to Europe. 
I was packed the minute he made the sug- 
gestion. We had twelve days in Europe 
and traveled to Rome, Switzerland, Mu- 
nich, Vienna, Paris, and Berlin — both East 
and West zones. 

In Rome, the Italian film stars gave a 
large party for Ed in appreciation of all he 
has done to make them as well known in 
America as they are in their native land. 
The Excelsior Hotel in Rome's beautiful 
Via Veneto was filled with top European 
celebrities. John Wayne, director Henry 
Hathaway, Jo Van Fleet, Rossano Brazzi 
and many others were also there. 

The following day, Ed had to go out to 
the set where John Wayne was filming 



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61 



"Legend of the Lost." This left me with 
time to shop, and I love shopping in Rome, 
particularly along the famous Via Con- 
dotti with its fabulous shops. No matter 
how many times I've been to Rome, the 
sight of that elegant flight of stone steps 
at the Piazza D'Espagna always makes me 
think I'm on a movie set, and the Vatican 
Museum filled with its priceless collection 
of ecclesiastical treasures fills me with awe. 
So, whenever I have a few hours to my- 
self, I wander through my favorite places. 

If it were up to me, I'd spend most of 
these trips just browsing around the towns 
and cities we visit. But Ed is more realis- 
tic. He knows that we don't have too 
much time. He believes in getting a good 
general idea of a place and then seeing 
the chief points of interest. 

Ed is a very meticulous traveler and 
traveling with h ; m has taught me a great 
many useful things. In the first place, 
both of us travel with a minimum of lug- 
gage. We only take things we're sure we 
will -wear on the trip. Since we know 
what countries we will visit and know 
what the weather will be like, we take ap- 
propriate clothing. Most important of all, 
we are always at the plane ahead of time. 
Ed is very punctual and is always the first 
one at the plane. 

Ed and I made our first trip to Europe 
in 1936 and have been going back for a 
few days, a week or longer, whenever 
time permits. In 1940, we wanted to go 
somewhere for a vacation but neither one 
of us had any idea where to go. Ed was 
appearing at Loew's State Theater on 
Broadway, at that time, and, one night 
after his show, we were walking along 
Broadway and passed a travel agency that 
had posters of South America in the 
window. Ed turned to me and said, "How 
would you like to go to South America?" 
I said I'd love it. "All right, we're going." 
And he went in and arranged passage then 
and there. , 

At another time, our daughter Betty and 
her husband Bob Precht were in New 
York from Washington spending Thanks- 
giving Day with us. Betty was six months 
pregnant at the time. During dinner, Ed 
was talking about Betty's birthday, which 
was December 29. He said we should plan 
to do something in celebration — and then, 
out of a clear sky, he turned to Bob and 
Betty and said, "How about going to Eu- 
rope for Christmas?" 

Bob couldn't hide the look of amaze- 



ment that spread over his face. He didn't 
know that was the way Ed did things. 
But, then and there, Ed arranged for us 
to spend Christmas and New Year's in 
Europe. We ate Betty's birthday cake up 
in the air over Europe, en route from 
London to France. 

Before Betty was married, and when- 
ever it was possible to have her along 
without interfering with her schooling, Ed 
and I always had her accompany us on our 
travels. 

It is a constant source of surprise to me, 
whenever we're in foreign countries, how 
many people recognize Ed during our vis- 
its. We may be walking down the street 
of a European city and people will greet 
him by name. Of course, at airports and 
railroad stations, there are always apt to 
be people who know Ed very well. On 
our last trip, we stopped at a Swiss air- 
port for a little while and ran into Sonja 
Henie. It happens all the time. 

Our recent European trip was a suc- 
cession of interesting highlights. Wherever 
we went, we saw things that we shall al- 
ways remember. Ed and I had wanted to 
go to East Berlin but, whenever we men- 
tioned this to anyone, they immediately 
discouraged us. They predicted all sorts 
of dire things. But I personally thought 
it might be interesting to see a completely 
different side of life. So, with all sorts of 
warnings ringing in our ears, with ad- 
monitions not to dare step out of our car, 
we set out. We refused to be frightened. 
Of course we didn't want to get involved 
in any unpleasant situation that might re- 
flect upon us as citizens of the United 
States. We simply wanted to go as tour- 
ists and to see if all the stories we heard 
were really true. 

East Berlin made a deep and definite im- 
pression on me. It was almost like being 
right inside Russia itself. We visited the 
cemetery where the heroes of the Battle 
of Berlin lie buried. We saw the huge 
somber statues of Mother Russia and the 
soldiers with guns and helmets standing 
guard over the dead. We saw the huge 
slabs set on the ground in memory of the 
battles and, inside the huge memorial, the 
names of the men who died in the Battle 
of Berlin. 

We stopped at the main square of the 
sector and there was a feeling of austerity 
and unquestionable discipline in the at- 
mosphere that made us happier than ever 
that we were Americans. 

In the American sector of Berlin, every- 



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62 



thing was different. The very looks on 
the faces of the people plainly signified 
that they were not living under the yoke of 
oppression. They knew how to laugh and 
smile and be happy. We went to Resi, one 
of the large night clubs frequented by 
Americans and particularly the G.I.'s. As 
we entered, the American soldiers there 
recognized Ed and a great cheer of wel- 
come greeted him. Then, they swarmed 
around him asking questions about home. 
Ed answered all those questions and then 
asked some himself. He took messages for 
their families and, when we got back to 
the states, he saw that each message was 
delivered to its destination. 

The Resi is a huge night club with al- 
most continuous entertainment. Each table 
has its own telephone and a dialing system 
enabling one patron to talk to another. 
Naturally, Ed's phone was kept busy all 
evening long. They also had an interest- 
ing system of communication by which 
messages were transmitted through pneu- 
matic tubes. This also enables patrons to 
communicate with each other and was 
particularly popular with the G.I's. 

The next day, Ed and I went to visit a 
television station in Berlin. As we walked 
into the studio, again a hearty welcoming 
cheer greeted us. By coincidence, on that 
very day, a group of thirty young Ameri- 
can students under the sponsorship of the 
New York Herald Tribune were visiting 
Berlin. Naturally, the young people recog- 
nized Ed — but they were amazed at seeing 
him there! 

Whether it's in night clubs, theaters or 
in a tiny cafe, Ed is always on the alert for 
new and unusual talent. In Paris, he loves 
to watch the street circus stationed there 
permanently. Sometimes, the performers 
he sees quite by accident eventually wind 
up on his CBS television show. If anyone 
mentions an unusual singer or performer, 
Ed will interrupt his itinerary to catch it. 
That's why his show has so much foreign 
talent that would otherwise never be seen 
by the vast American television viewers. 
And that's why, wherever we go in Europe, 
people seem to know him. He is regarded 
as a sort of ambassador-without-portfolio 
and, in almost all the countries we visit, 
they constantly tell us he has done more 
to establish a strong bond of friendship 
with the United States than any other per- 
son in the field of entertainment. 

There is definitely a logical explanation 
for this. Ed is always interested in the 
individual. It doesn't matter to him where 
the performer may come from or what col- 
or or creed he may be. If the person ex- 
cels in his particular type of field, if he or 
she is tops as an entertainer, that's enough 
for Ed. 

No matter where we go, Ed is interested 
in the people. He stops and chats with 
shopkeepers, porters and waiters. He talks 
to the streetcar conductors, the elevator 
operators, the taxi drivers and the police- 
men. As for me, I can never get enough 
of wandering through foreign towns and 
cities, observing everything that goes on. 
Sometimes months later, back in New 
York or at our Connecticut farm, I'll sud- 
denly recall how a little street or square 
in a corner of Paris looked. And, no mat- 
ter how many times I've been there, I al- 
ways feel nostalgia and a desire to return. 

Being married to Ed is exciting. Be- 
cause both of us are ready to go any place 
at a moment's notice, our travels have 
been filled with fun and enjoyment. There 
are so many places I'd love to revisit. But 
I am also hoping that some day Ed and I 
can manage to get to Israel, to Africa and 
to India. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow 
morning, Ed might suddenly turn to me 
and say, "Better pack a bag, Sylvia, we're 
going to Madagascar." 



(Continued jrom page 44) 
even begun to fight a way back toward 
success — to make a new career in the place 
where he'd made his first. 

Julie saw that her expression was proud. 
She was glad. Phil was proud, desperately 
so, and it was part of her disaster that 
his pride would not let him permit her 
to share his misfortune. He would be 
ashamed to offer only poverty to the 
woman he loved. But that same pride gave 
him courage to fight when everything 
looked blackest, and Julie now felt pride 
in his courage. It worked. 

She dressed, remembering every word 
of his letter as she moved about her 
room. At once she could see the words 
he'd written as they appeared upon the 
paper, and the images the words evoked. 
He'd been filled with despair at the be- 
ginning. But, very oddly, another woman 
had brought him out of it and back to 
this new resolution and this new enter- 
prise which might — which must — which 
would mean that they would yet be 
happy together. 

A former sweetheart, one Dolores, had 
sought him out, he said, and Julie read 
between the lines and knew that she'd 
tried to revive a love affair long ended. 
She'd failed because Phil loved Julie and 
could not cease to love her. So the letter 
told much more than Phil intended, 
and all of it was matter for pride. He'd 
bought an ancient cargo plane in such 
bad condition that no one else would 
touch it. He'd repaired it with his own 
hands, and it flew. He was a competent 
pilot. He'd set up a one-plane charter 
service, flying air freight to places where 
other pilots preferred not to risk land- 
ings. Because he would fly where other 



Hilltop House 

men would not, his services were already 
in demand. In a little while, he could buy 
a second plane. If all went well, there 
could still be happiness for them . . . 

He ignored the hatred of his brother 
Lloyd, and the diseased vindictiveness 
with which Lloyd had tried to avenge an 
injury which had never been inflicted. 
Phil's letter was carefully less than opti- 
mistic, but it implied a tenderness and a 
resolution so complete that, when she 
first read it, Julie felt all the warmth 
and happiness a woman feels when she 
knows she is beloved by the one man 
who really counts. But that was a long 
time ago, now. 

Her dressing was finished. She looked 
at herself again. The sunshine in the 
windows was no longer mockery. The 
warm soft breeze was no longer merely air 
in motion. The bird songs ceased to be 
derision. By calling upon herself for 
courage, she had brought herself out of 
one of the blackest of morning moods 
and to one which, if it was not cheer- 
fulness, was at least a sturdy resolution 
which could substitute for it. 

"It's not too bad!" she told her re- 
flection with increasing bravery. "I've just 
got to wait! And Phil hasn't given up. 
He'll manage. So can I. The question 
is — " 

The question was, of course, how to 
make waiting endurable. As she left her 
room, she pondered the question with a 
new urgency. For years, until now, she'd 
had something to fill her every waking 
moment. There'd been Hilltop House and 
the children there. . . . She felt a wistful 
warmth at memory of those who'd needed 
her so terribly, and whom she had been 
able to help. Then she caught the note 



of regret in her own thoughts, and thrust 
it aside. Karen was head of Hilltop House 
now. Karen was young, but she was sweet 
and lovable and intelligent, and she had 
taken over the work Julie'd chosen her 
to do. Julie should not try to interfere 
there, even though Terry was a problem 
to be solved . . . Terry was a teen-age 
girl frantically hungry to be loved and to 
belong somewhere with someone . . . 
and Mark would be a problem pre- 
sently . . . 

Going down the stairs, Julie called a 
halt to those thoughts. Those problems 
were Hilltop House problems. She had 
separated herself from Hilltop House so 
she could marry Phil. She must not offer 
advice or help to Karen unless Karen 
asked for it. It would be disastrous, even 
to the children, to have divided counsel- 
ors. 

Counselors. David, who ran the Clinic 
for Potential Delinquents near Hilltop, 
because he'd lived at the Hilltop House 
orphanage when he was a boy. The years 
he'd spent there were the most crucial 
of his childhood, and he knew that the 
help and guidance given him had pro- 
vided the stability which now made him 
one of the nation's foremost authorities 
in child psychology. He'd had his own 
tragedies, too . . . 

Julie reached the bottom of the stairs. 
It was good to think of David. If she'd 
helped even one neglected, unwanted 
child to grow toward being a man like 
David, her years at Hilltop House were 
not wasted! And he was her friend. She 
owed very much to him. It had been 
David who, when she first took charge of 
Hilltop House, showed her very gently 
that the orphanage was not merely a 




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refuge in which she could live absorbed in 
the love of the Hilltop children and their 
need of her. He'd made her see that she 
must not cut herself off from everything 
outside the House to live upon her mem- 
ories. He'd made her see that, to give the 
children courage to accept even losses 
by death with bravery, she must be the 
embodiment of it. And she felt rueful that 
this morning she'd lacked all courage. 

She prepared her breakfast. She thought 
of Phil, of course, but she was aware of a 
deep gratitude to and affection for David. 
When he helped her most, he'd been mar- 
ried himself — and his marriage was a 
tragedy, in spite of his young daughter 
Felicia. Knowing of her love for Phil now, 
Julie felt a sort of wonder that, for a time, 
she'd had to struggle against falling in 
love with David. But that was done with. 
There was Phil. 

She sat down to her coffee, aware that 
she must make some decision and find 
some activity while waiting for Phil's new 
career to come to fruition. She must 
find some useful work to do which she 
could resign without damage when Phil 
was ready to marry her. 

1 he coffee was good. The eggs and 
toast were perfect. The room in which 
she breakfasted was bright and colorful, 
and the sunshine outside was now con- 
tagiously cheerful. There was no lessen- 
ing of her longing to be with Phil, in 
South America or anywhere else. But, by 
summoning courage, she'd made this day 
into something more than so many hours 
to be endured. Now it was a day in which 
to plan for that period, whether long or 
short, in which she must wait for Phil to 
achieve that material success without 
which he would be ashamed to have her 
share his life. 

She spread a little extra butter on a bit 
of toast, aware of an odd satisfaction, 
now that she faced her problem squarely. 
Perhaps she could help David at the 
Clinic. Certainly — though it would in no 
sense be work — she could be of some use 
to Felicia, David's daughter. Felicia's life 
had been tragic, too. David's marriage to 
her mother had been bitterly unhappy, 
and Felicia had known that her mother 
was the cause of it. She'd felt a terrible 
guilt because she could feel no grief when 
her mother was killed in an accident. 
Julie had been able to help her then, and 
Felicia adored her now. She could give 
Felicia something of the capacity a wom- 
an needs, for loving without reward. 

She heard footsteps, and a moment 
later the doorbell rang. She went to an- 
swer it. The footsteps were Felicia's. She 
came often to see Julie, dashing in and out 
with a heartwarming confidence in being 
welcome. But, when Julie opened the door, 
she was astonished at the doleful look on 
Felicia's face. 

"I — I came to ask you something," said 
Felicia in a strained voice. "It's — rather 
important. I don't know what to 
think ..." 

"I'm about to have my second cup of 
coffee," said Julie, smiling. "Come in 
and tell me and think it out as you talk." 

"Th-thanks," Felicia said hesitantly. 
"I can always ask you anything. This 
time, perhaps I shouldn't. But — you're the 
one person in the world I know will al- 
ways let me tell the whole truth and not 
blame me." 

Julie led the way to where the coffee 
pot waited. With the professional knowl- 
edge acquired at Hilltop House, she noted 
that Felicia looked distressed, but not 
T ashamed. It was, then, not a problem of 
V something she'd done, but of something 
n she felt she should do — and didn't like. 

"One good way to face the truth is to 
say it," she observed. "Sit here, Felicia. 
64 



I'll get a cup of hot coffee for you." 

She did. In even that brief moment, she 
made her decision. She would ask David 
if she could join him at the Clinic for 
Potential Delinquents. They were friends 
and could work together, without con- 
straint, at something they both considered 
the most important work in the world. She 
could turn the dreary time of waiting 
for Phil into a time of accomplishment. 
And to guide even one child away from 
the desperate unhappiness of meaningless 
revolt would be justification and payment 
for her postponement of happiness with 
Phil. 

She poured coffee for Felicia and sat 
down. She found herself smiling. When 
she'd heard Felicia's problem, she'd tell 
her of the decision just made. It would 
be deeply satisfying. David's friendship 
and the work she knew . . . 

"What's the trouble, Felicia?" 

"It's my father," said Felicia. She gulped, 
not touching the coffee. "He — Karen Whit- 
field has fallen in love with him." 

Julie sat very still. When she and 
David were thrown together in the old 
days, by the work David did with the 
children at Hilltop House, she'd had to 
struggle against falling in love with 
David, herself. His wife was still alive 
then. It would be wholly natural for Kar- 
en, now that his wife was dead . . . 

"You can't be sure, Felicia," she said 
gently. But inside she felt a sense of 
shock. "No one can help liking your father. 
You may be mistaking — " 

Felicia stammered. She'd seen Karen, 
who seemed so composed and efficient — 
she'd seen Karen touch her father's coat 
when he was not in the room. She saw 
Karen longingly kiss its sleeve. And 
then Karen saw that Felicia had seen, and 
went desperately white. She tried for a 
moment to pass it off, and then plead- 
ingly asked Felicia not to tell anyone, 
especially her father . . . 

Julie did not move. She, herself, was 
going to marry Phil. There was no reason 
why Karen and David should not marry, 
if David came to wish it. If he'd been free 
to marry when she first went to Hilltop 
House, even she . . . But Karen would be 
good for David. And for Felicia. 

"What should I do?" asked Felicia un- 
happily. She said with a sudden, halting 
rush of words. "I've — always hoped my 
father would marry you. Even when you — 
got engaged to someone else, I — hoped 
you'd change your mind. When you came 
back, the marriage postponed, I — I even 
prayed that you would! I've been hoping 
— oh, so much! — that you would marry 
him someday because you'd — be so dif- 
ferent from my mother and he'd be so 
happy with you — and I'd be happy, too!" 

Julie hoped she wasn't pale. She spoke 
gently. Later — much later — she was able 
to be amazed that she had said just the 
right things to Felicia. But they were 
right. They were the things Felicia was 
just a little too young to think out for 
herself, but which she could realize 
were right when Julie said them, and 
which she would adopt as a guide. 

David, said Julie quietly, was entitled 
to happiness if the means to his happiness 
was not harm to anyone else. Felicia was 
entitled to be happy, too — but not at the 
cost of her father's future joy. Undoubted- 
ly, she could hinder the growth of love 
between Karen and her father. She could 
spoil her father's happiness, if she chose. 
But she could not make him happy. She 
could only let him find it for himself. That 
would be doing what was good for him. 
If she preferred that what was good for 
him should be a certain thing — why, if 
it was not that thing. . . . 

"You're saying that I — want him to be 



happy," Felicia said unsteadily. "I do. 
Especially after what he had while I was 
growing up. You're saying that I can't 
decide for him what will make him happy. 
And that, though I may wish it were 
something else — if I can't have what I want 
a certain way, I just have to have it the 
way it can be had. I — I want my father to 
have what he deserves." She swallowed. 
"Only ... I think he — deserves you." 

She went away, leaving her coffee un- 
touched. But she carried her head high. 
Now she wouldn't betray Karen's pitiful 
secret. She wouldn't inject bitterness into 
Karen's life, or David's. If they married, 
she'd try hard to help. . . . She'd grown 
a little more mature in the past few mo- 
ments. She was nearer to being the woman 
she could someday be. 

Julie continued to sit very still. Her 
second cup of coffee grew cold before 
her. Her decision was reversed, now. She 
could no longer ask to work with David at 
the Clinic. She must stand aside so David 
and Karen would have their chance at 
happiness — if what they wanted was each 
other. Her presence at the Clinic would 
mean fear, for Karen. She would be tor- 
mented by the closeness of David and 
Julie. She might grow bitter because of 
lost hope. 

But Julie had lost her one prospect of 
filling with accomplishment the time she 
must wait for Phil to meet the demands 
of his own pride. She faced again what 
she'd confronted on first awakening. 
Months or even years of empty waiting, 
in which she could not fulfill the need of 
anybody, anywhere. Not Phil. Not any 
lonely, defiant child. . . . 

1 he postman came up the steps and rang 
the bell. He went away. Almost numbly, 
Julie went to see what he had left. There 
was a single letter — with a South Ameri- 
can stamp on it. Julie's heart leaped. Then 
it sank again. The handwriting on the 
envelope was not Phil's. Foreboding as- 
sailed her. Her hands shook as she tore it 
open. 

The letter was from that Dolores who 
had been Phil's sweetheart once upon a 
time, but who had not been able to 
reawaken his love. With bitterness, be- 
cause she was writing to the woman Phil 
did love — but with grief besides — she 
told Julie what had happened to Phil. 
He had accepted a charter for his re- 
paired cargo plane (which, Dolores said, 
now seemed to have been arranged by 
his brother Lloyd). He'd taken off. He did 
not land at his destination. He was miss- 
ing. But there were rumors that he'd 
crashed in the jungle, and that his burned 
plane and perhaps his body had been 
found by the Indians of a remote jungle 
village. Dolores told Julie drearily that 
she herself believed the plane had been 
sabotaged. Lloyd. 

Like an automaton, Julie found herself 
climbing the stairs to her bedroom. Like 
a robot, she found herself pulling out a 
suitcase. Without any conscious mental 
process, she found herself packing. She 
knew, without deciding at all, that she 
was going to South America. She was 
going to find the Indian village — however 
remote or savage it might be — near which 
Phil had crashed. She was going to find 
Phil. 

A little while since, she felt she had re- 
learned the lesson of courage. Now she 
knew she had not. She could face the 
possibility that in that village she might 
find Phil crippled or hideously disfigured. 
She would not care. But she couldn't let 
her mind dwell for the fraction of an in- 
stant on the fact that he might be dead. 

She couldn't face that! She couldn't! 

She packed for traveling, forcing her 
mind to the immediate task at hand. . . . 






Keeping Up With The Joneses 



(Continued from page 50) 
in much the same manner and with as 
much love as he spends on his own brood 
of four: Melody, 8; Ricky, 5%; and the 
twins, Jennafer and Jeffrey, born August 
21, 1955. 

But, with four in his brood at home, 
Dick would be the first to agree that here 
the resemblance between Buffalo Bill, Jr. 
and Dick Jones ends. "There is absolutely 
nothing," says Dick, "that compares with 
the experience of running a home with 
four children in it . . . unless it's the ex- 
perience of a home with five children. . . . 

"Take this morning, for example," Dick 
grins. "My wife went to a fashion show, 
and I'm left with the duty. Unfortunately, 
Melody, who acts like a second mother, 
is down with the mumps. While trying to 
show Rick how to build a castle out of 
blocks, and potty-train Jennafer, and run 
a bath for Jeff, and squeeze juice for 
Melody, I've got my hands full. 

"Great man that he was, I'm not sure 
even Buffalo Bill, Senior, could have 
handled it. I don't know how Betty man- 
ages-7— yet, when I'm away on tour and 
she's here alone with the four of them, 
Betty runs this little bungalow like a 
well-oiled sewing machine." 

. Dick and Betty met when he was fifteen 
years old and she thirteen. "You know the 
old saying," smiles Dick. " 'I saw this 
girl and right away knew that she was 
the one for me.' That's the way I felt about 
Betty. I was sitting in Sherman's Record 
Bar, over on Wilshire Boulevard, with 
Gwynn Bacon. We were listening to 'That 
Old Black Magic' when Betty walked in 
and picked up a 'Peter and the Wolf 
album. I thought she was cute. Seeing the 
album title, I decided to be real funny 
and whistle like a wolf. Nudging Gwynn, 



I said, 'Hey, boy, look at that dish . . .' 
and he said, 'Aw, don't bother me — she's 
just my sister.' " 

Betty says that, at the time, she thought 
Dick was too "Hollywood." Dick remem- 
bers that getting that first date wasn't 
easy. "Betty wouldn't go out with me," he 
blushes. "I don't think I had a very good 
reputation in junior high school. Don't 
misunderstand ... I didn't get into any 
trouble. But, because I was working stead- 
ily, I had a car of my own — that, at only 
fourteen. Today, you have to be at least 
sixteen. Even in those days, a boy with 
a car at fourteen was looked on as a hot- 
rod kid. Yet I had to use it to take me to 
the Valley and back and forth to the 
studios. 

"I finally had to twist her brother's arm 
— not literally, of course — to get him to 
help me get a date. Betty finally agreed to 
go to a Hi-Y dance, on the stipulation 
that we double-date with Gwynn. He 
was the Hi-Y president, and I was a mem- 
ber. Once there, I naturally wanted to 'be 
alone' with my date and cooked up some 
story so that we finally lost brother 
Gwynn. Betty was kind of upset. But 
when I took her for a drive, bought her a 
Coke and me a cup of coffee — had to look 
like the 'older man,' don't you know — and 
then straight home, why, she decided I 
was a gentleman, after all. 

"There's never been anybody else in 
my life but Betty," Dick says proudly. We 
went out every Friday and Saturday night 
from then on, mostly to dances and foot- 
ball games. Then she used to come over 
to my house to play monopoly, and I went 
over to hers to play canasta. She always 
beat me," he grins. 

"Then we were separated for two years," 
Betty sorrowfully continues describing 



their courtship, "when Dick went to New 
York to do the Henry Aldrich show. Oh, 
you know how teenagers ache when they 
are in love and separated! Goodness, we 
wrote to one another every day, it seems. 

"Our romance really got serious when 
Dick returned — he was going to Glendale 
Junior College and I was at Los Angeles 
J. C. On the night of November 21, 1947— 
I'll remember the day till I die — he popped 
the question. We were at the Cocoanut 
Grove, when all of a sudden he brought 
out the ring! I was so surprised I could 
only say, 'Yes . . .' We can't help it, I 
guess, but we are both so sentimental, it's 
foolish ... so we set the date then and 
there for April ninth. That was the day 
we first started going together — neither 
of us had forgotten. 

"We were married at the Hollywood 
Christian Church. Dick's aunt's husband 
was his best man. We had identical gold 
bands made, and today I've yet to take 
off my wedding ring — though the engage- 
ment ring comes off for the dishes. Poor 
Dick has been doing so much stunt work 
since our marriage that his hands have 
changed, what with broken knuckles and 
so forth. So he can't wear his wedding 
ring on the third finger — wears it on his 
little finger instead, and is never without 
it unless he's in some sort of a fight scene." 

Dick has had a rugged life as an actor 
ever since he was a child. As a youngster, 
he worked consistently in Westerns be- 
cause he could do his own horse and stunt 
work. There was the wagon wreck with 
Errol Flynn in "Virginia City," where for 
seconds it seemed as if Dick were about to 
lose his life, but was jerked out of danger 
at the last instant. And, in a Wild Bill 
Elliott picture, Dick did a horse fall -in 
front of a stampede with a quick "pick up" 



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— again just in the nick of time. The stu- 
dios loved Dick. When he worked, they 
didn't have to hire a double. 

Dick is at home on a horse because he's 
been part of Western show business ever 
since he was three years old. He was born 
Richard P. Jones in Snyder, Texas, some 
twenty-five years ago, and his mother had 
him trick -riding and roping — and playing 
a ukulele — when he was three-and-a-half. 
"My mother taught me all the stunts," says 
Dick wonderingly, "and, to this day, I've 
been trying to figure out where she learned 
them." 

At four, Dick had a pet black pony. "He 
was no bigger than a shepherd dog," he 
reminisces. "Used to follow me around 
like a pup — even came into the house. We 
trained him to do all sorts of tricks, but 
later sold him to a rodeo. I was sorry to 
see him go. A bit later I had me a spotted 
mare, ten hands tall, that I did all my 
tricks on. One dark night, coming home 
from a show and parade, I was cutting 
across the back pasture and we got tan- 
gled up with a cow on a stake chain. Poor 
horse broke a leg and I almost broke my 
neck. 

"In those days, it seems something was 
always happening to me. Temporarily 
without a horse, I turned to putting on 
impromptu rodeos with the dairy cows on 
the farm behind us. I'd round up all the 
kids in the neighborhood and we'd take to 
roping and riding the milk cows and just 
generally raising Cain in the dairy. Farm- 
er was right irritated." 

When Dick was only four-and-a-half — 
and working a Dallas rodeo — cowboy star 
Hoot Gibson said those classical words, 
"You ought to be in pictures." His mother 
was all for it and, by the time Dick turned 
five, he was settled on Hoot's ranch in 
Saugus, California. "There," Dick recalls, 
"I rode Tumbleweed, the greatest bucking 
horse in the world. Tumbleweed and I 
would trot from the ranch to the rodeo, 
about a mile- and- a-half down the road. 
I'd be on him in the Grand Entry, then 
we'd put him in the bucking chute — where 
he'd go out and promptly buck off his 
rider. Then I'd get back aboard and non- 
chalantly ride him back to the barn. 

"While I lived with Hoot," Dick con- 
tinues, "he took me around to the studios. 
My first role was in a Warner Bros, pic- 
ture called 'Wonder Bar.' For a week, I 
was one of the angels flying around Stage 
13 on a wire — eating watermelon. I later 
made eleven pictures with Buck Jones. I 
never made a picture with Hoot. 

"There's one thing that Betty and I 
agree on for our children," Dick says seri- 
ously. "We hope they won't want to be 
performers — at least, child performers. I 
think it's too hard on a youngster. I know 
from my own experience. With working 
most of the time, and moving from school 
to school, I had little chance to make 
friends. And youngsters all have a need 
to belong to a group. 

"It may be easy for some kids, but it was 
tough for me. I didn't want to go to a pro- 
fessional school, either — that would only 
make me all the more 'different.' I wanted 
to go to public school and lead a normal 
life like the other kids on the block. To- 
day, I still have a hard time accepting my- 
self as an actor. Every once in a while, 
as I walk in my front door, I'll say to my- 
self, 'Now just who am I? Buffalo Bill, Jr. 
— or Dick West — or some character out of 
another movie? Or am I Dick Jones, fam- 
ily man and father? What's my name as I 
walk in the door of my own house?' Be- 
lieve me, to me it's a problem ... I call 

T it 'professional schizophrenia.' 

V "I think our faith has helped us a great 

i! deal with this problem," says Dick. "When 
Betty and I were somewhat younger, I 
was more hotheaded. I didn't like being 

66 



called 'the next John Barrymore'— not 
even when I knew I was being ribbed. But 
some of the kids in school gave me a bad 
time. And, when they did, Betty said, 
'Dick, you simply give those people a 
Christian witness and they will leave you 
alone . . .' So our religion has become the 
bulwark of our family." 

Betty and Dick belong to the Hollywood 
Christian Group, made up mostly of 
Hollywood performers, and, once they had 
joined, found they couldn't get enough to 
satisfy their spiritual hunger. Dick is now 
on the group's board of directors, and 
their week revolves around its meetings. 
"Betty belongs to a Christian sorority," he 
says, "goes to a weekly breakfast, holds 
two prayer meetings each week with the 
folks in the neighborhood, and goes to 
church on Sunday. I go to the Wednesday- 
morning breakfast, to Friday-night group 
meetings and — if I'm not on the road — to 
church on Sunday." 

Despite road trips, Dick has been home 
for the birth of all four of his and Betty's 
children. "I was new at the game when 
Melody arrived," he smiles, "but I'm an 
old hand now! When Melody was due, we 
had an apartment down near U.S.C. One 
morning, about three A.M., Betty nudged 
me in the back, saying, 'I think you better 



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call the doctor.' Our first baby was almost 
here! I was running around the house try- 
ing to get dressed, trying to get Betty 
ready, trying to call the doctor — and not 
doing a very complete job of anything. 

"I'd heard that if you held a white hand- 
kerchief out the window of the automo- 
bile, if a police officer saw you, he would 
understand it was a maternity case and 
lead you to the hospital. At three o'clock 
in the morning, we didn't see any police 
officers but a couple of folks we passed 
must have thought I was crazy driving 
sixty miles an hour with one hand out 
the window. To say the least, I was pretty 
excited about our first-born. 

"For Ricky, I was calm, cool and col- 
lected," he insists. "I was just going down 
to the barn to work my horse, when Betty 
said again, 'You'd better call the doctor.' 
We took Melody along with us, but the 
doctor said the baby wouldn't arrive until 
1:30. Melody was disappointed with the 
wait, finally lost patience and said, 'I can't 
wait any longer ... I want to go out and 
play.' So I took her over to her grand- 
mother's house, came back about one. At 
1:35, the doctor announced over the PA 



system, 'Come upstairs, Dick, and look at 
your new son.' 

"Then, the day the twins arrived — talk 
about excitement! August 21, 1955, was the 
greatest day in our life. I was supposed to 
work the Coliseum Rodeo, but I had a 
sneaking suspicion that something might 
happen early, so I withdrew. Sure enough, 
at ten A.M., Betty gave me the signal. We 
got to the hospital in minutes, and the first 
baby was born at 12:35, the second at 
12:40. With it all, Betty had an easy time 
with the twins. Me, I'm not sure I've re- 
covered yet. 

"Melody was proud as punch of the 
twins. She's a great little mother," says 
Dick. Betty adds, "For a while, young 
Rick felt left out of things. But we spent a 
great deal of time with him. Dick, for ex- 
ample, takes him to the lumber yard to 
pick out wood for a continuing do-it- 
yourself project he has going on in our 
rather small Burbank home — eleven hun- 
dred square feet was never meant for a 
family of six! And they'll work on Dick's 
miniature boats together, or in the lathe 
house in back — Dick was a carpenter after 
his Army career in the war. When we go 
camping, Rick collects the firewood, Dick 
builds the fire and catches the fish. Camp- 
ing is a community affair. 

"But most important," she continues, 
"Dick takes young Rick with him to the 
stables to work his horse 'He's A Dandy.' 
Rick thinks his dad is the greatest hero 
since George Washington, and, when he 
watches his dad on 'Dan,' he gets a wor- 
shipping look in his eyes. He even tries to 
dress like Dick, in levis and Western shirts 
— when we go shopping, Rick always 
wants one 'just like Dad's.' I know we're 
going to have a hard time keeping him 
from becoming anything but a cowboy. 
Already, he can jump and leap around like 
an Indian and, being imitative, can do al- 
most as many tricks as his dad. 

"But, more than anything," continues 
Betty, "Dick and I would like to encourage 
the children to lead a Christian life. For 
example, in trying to teach them about 
the Bible, we have verse cards in a dish at 
the table which they draw out to read be- 
fore each meal. Here is one, for example, 
Proverbs 3, verse 9: 'Honor the Lord with 
thy substance.' They read one of these 
biblical verses and then we discuss it, try- 
ing to bring out what it means to them in 
particular. We try to illustrate the verse 
in terms of their own experience, in terms 
of the problems they now face in school. 

"We always say our prayers at night, 
before we go to bed, and a grace before 
each meal. We sometimes have a round- 
robin at the table where the children make 
up their own thanks as we go around. In 
the evening prayer, Dick and I generally 
begin first, trying to give them an idea of 
some of the things they might want to in- 
clude — then they are on their own. They 
pray for all their little friends, and for 
Daddy when he is away. One time, Ricky, 
then only two-and-a-half, said, 'Please, 
God, take care of my pal Robbie's dead 
dog ... he was one of my friends.' That's 
the sort of thing that makes you feel your 
effort pays off. 

"Above all," says Betty Jones, "we 
never try to judge their prayers, to criti- 
cize their content or correct their phrase- 
ology. We simply want them to learn that 
they can go to God, that He is with them 
all the time . . . 

"We feel God has blessed us with a 'big 
family.' And there is nothing to our minds 
more pure and cherished . . . more inno- 
cent and closer to God . . . than little chil- 
dren. So, you see, our family has made us 
feel very close to our God; and our one 
goal in life is the hope that well be able 
to teach them each day to live as He would 
want them to." 



Three's the Most! 



(Continued from page 36) 
became a trio. And they were close 
enough in age to catch hand-me-down 
clothes. "I was always jealous of Chris," 
Dot confesses. "She always had the new 
clothes and I had to take her hand-me- 
downs." Phyl adds, "Then Dotty would 
pass them on to me. I was jealous of Dot 
because I got them third-hand." 

"And how about the fudge business?" 
Phyl continues. "To this day, I can't for- 
give Chris and Dot for being so high- 
handed. I always got the smidgins. You 
see, when we were very small, Chris 
would make fudge. She was always a 
good cook. I remember when I was in 
grade school, when sugar was rationed 
during the war and it was hard to get 
chocolate, mother would give us permis- 
sion to make candy once a week. Some- 
times we made it without permission. 
Well, anyway, because I was the young- 
est, I got the thin bits of fudge. Chris 
would pour the fudge in a plate and when 
she cut it v/e all got the same number of 
pieces but I got the outside, shallow bits 
and they got the big, thick center hunks!" 

"We had our side, too," Dotty notes. 
"Someone had to go to the store and get 
the stuff, and she wouldn't go. We'd ask 
her to butter the plate or help wash up. 
She wouldn't do her share." 

"Oh, I was the baby," Phyl explains 
airily, "and I shouldn't have had to do all 
that. I was in the first grade." 

Understandably, Chris was the plump 
one in those days. And she had the wan- 
derlust. First up in the morning, she'd 
trudge down Main Street to the highway 
in her pajamas, all set to travel. Dot was 
"mother's perfect child" — until she was 
nine and took to the trees with a Tarzan 
complex. Phyl, at the age of six, began 



to "propose and elope" almost daily. The 
girls began to sing together in their tender 
years, but this was just for family fun. 
In their teens, they sang publicly at church 
meetings, weddings and similar gatherings. 
In 1950, they made a nine-month tour of 
Army camps. This was perhaps the turn- 
ing point in their lives. On this tour, 
hospitalized veterans requested popular 
songs and the girls tried to please. They 
had never before sung anything but re- 
ligious music in public. In 1951, they had 
their own TV show and sang with Karl 
Taylor's orchestra in Dayton. In late 1951, 
they came to New York, made eight ap- 
pearances with Kate Smith, won a Talent 
Scouts show in December — and, a month 
later, in January of 1952, became regulars 
on the Arthur Godfrey programs. 

"Of course, we were always together as 
sisters," Chris says. "But, since 1949, I'd 
say we've been together from breakfast 
to evening or late night continuously. The 
longest we've ever been separated has 
been for a weekend — and that not very 
often, since most one-night bookings fall 
on Friday and Saturday." 

All kinds of silly, mixed-up things have 
happened to the McGuires, for these can 
be three delirious damozels. There was the 
time they missed two planes out of the 
Pittsburgh Airport — although they were 
on the field all the time. Phyl recalls: 
"The three of us were on our first engage- 
ment out of New York City and we had 
to change planes in Pittsburgh. We were 
told we had fifteen minutes there, and we 
saw one of those places that sell those 
interesting, creamy-whipped cones. We 
rushed up to the place where they were 
sold, and had to stand in line because 
there were so many people ahead of us. 
We finally got the cones — and, when we 



went back to the plane, it had gone. We 
were told we had a half-hour wait and 
then we missed that one, too — beeause we 
were so busy looking around and so un- 
conscious of time." 

Yet the McGuire Sisters, like others who 
work in radio and television, are literally 
slaves to the clock. They must stick to a 
merciless schedule, day after day, to make 
rehearsals, air time, fittings, interviews, 
business meetings, recording sessions. The 
clock is their master from the moment 
they awake. 

In Manhattan, Dot and Phyl live to- 
gether in a duplex apartment. Chris lives 
a few blocks north with her husband, John 
Teeter, and her two boys (when they are 
home from school) . While the girls don't 
congregate until after breakfast, they talk 
on the phone as soon as they're awake. 
"This is the way it is in the morning," 
says Phyl. "Dot is sleeping in her bed- 
room and I in mine. First thing you know, 
the telephones begin ringing." 

"I have the service call me to wake me 
up," Dot interrupts to explain, "and al- 
ways have them call back fifteen minutes 
later. I'm trying to kid myself into think - 
ink I'm sleeping overtime." 

"Nothing helps me when I wake up," 
Phyl continues. "Not a shower, and not 
breakfast. When I see the sun, I feel bet- 
ter — but that's all. So I keep quiet in the 
morning. I don't talk when Chris calls. 
Dot gets on the phone, and she and Dot 
decide what we'll wear. I just listen in on 
their conversation so that I know what I 
have to wear. I grumble downstairs to 
the coffee pot and, pretty soon, Dot comes 
down, too. We haven't exchanged a word. 
Then we go upstairs and dress. Chris 
calls again to change something we were 
to wear. Usually, the first words Dot and 




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I exchange are after we have dressed and 
had breakfast and are leaving the apart- 
ment to get into Chris's car to go to the 
studio. Then we officially start the day 
by saying, 'Good morning.' " 

The big headache is always the fight 
with time. Not one but three must have 
nails manicured, hair dressed, clothes 
fitted. If all favor one masseuse — as they 
do — then it becomes three times as hard 
to set up an appointment, for each must 
go at a different time, and that means three 
hours lost, rather than one. 

"Most of our arguments are over the 
schedule," Chris says. "I have a hair ap- 
pointment and Phyllis has one, too — but 
at a different time. We all know that the 
most important thing is rehearsal, and we 
can't give that up. We'll walk down the 
street arguing over who will give up the 
appointment so that we'll have that extra 
hour for rehearsing. Cab drivers always 
say that they've often wondered if we 
were really sisters, but when they hear 
us argue they know that we are!" 

Actually, the girls try to coordinate 
their activities as well as complement one 
another. Dotty saves time by lending her 
body to the fittings for all three. The 
girls' measurements are almost exactly 
the same, and so this is practical. Dot 
also pays the cab fare; since the girls may 
be in and out of cabs a dozen times a day, 
this becomes another time-saver. Phyl, on 
the other hand, always picks up the phone 
(except before breakfast). She sets up 
time for interviews, pictures, rehearsals. 
Chris has always done the shopping for 
the trio, with never any dissension there. 

"Chris buys nine-tenths of all our 
clothes," says Phyl, "and I mean all. Not 
just gowns, but stockings, underclothes, 
sport things. And we like everything she 
gets. We really have the same taste." As 
Dotty notes, "We've separated and visited 
the same stores in the same city — and 
we've ended up making almost identical 
purchases. That's even happened with 
undies. Of course, we have the same col- 
oring and size, so we wear certain styles." 
And Chris adds, "For example, we always 
buy seamless hose. We do this because — 
with six legs — there might be six crooked 
seams, so we avoid the problem." 

The McGuires have won a reputation 
for being beautifully dressed, but it's not 
all in the selection of clothes. Often, the 
girls have helped in designing their own 
gowns. Phyl explains, "Well, take our last 
set of gowns, that were actually designed 
by Sophie at Saks. We felt the gowns had 
to be striking. We wanted to accomplish 
this with beading and designs, but it had 
to be watched. We didn't want the bead- 
ing too heavy. Then we had two gowns 
made with straight material but used in 
such a way that they were just as striking 
as the gowns with the beading." For 
both sets of gowns, the McGuires sug- 
gested the basic ideas as well as the colors. 

Their new, full coats are also their own 
brainchildren. 

"We have three black-diamond capes," 
says Dot, "long capes with hoods. We 
thought they might be chilly without 
sleeves and suggested long mink gloves 
to give the appearance of sleeves. The 
furrier carried the idea on a little further. 
He fixed the long mink gloves so that we 
can take off the top halves and have three- 
quarter size gloves. We can also take the 
top halves and make muffs out of them or 
a hat or a little bow to use with suits." 

The girls seldom have to borrow clothes 
from one another. The exceptional time 
was disastrous, as Chris recalls. "I let 
Phyl borrow my mink stole one night and, 
the next night, her place was robbed — and 
the stole went with everything else." 

Like their clothes, their luggage and 
handbags are identical, so they have them 
initialed to tell them apart. They get 



oothbrushes and other toiletries in dif- 
ferent colors, but try to keep make-up 
simplified and standard. "We choose lip- 
stick according to the gown we're wear- 
ing," says Dot, "and we have such a 
variety that it creates quite a problem. 
For our coloring, we don't like lipsticks 
with blue in them. When it comes to fin- 
gernails, we've stopped using colors, be- 
cause of the quick changes we must make. 
We use plain polish so that, no matter 
what color we wear, the polish will not 
conflict." 

They are always happy to stumble on 
something that will simplify their routines, 
for the average day is strenuous. They 
have even come to depend on one another 
for recreation. As Dot says, "We really 
get our biggest laughs out of each other, 
and no one ever gets hurt." 

Phyllis — who insists that she hasn't a 
sense of humor — contributes frequently to 
the fun. She's good at mimicry, not just 
of celebrities but of everyday people they 
meet. She is also a practical joker. "We 
had a doctor friend at dinner one evening," 
Chris recalls, "and Phyl insisted that she 
was getting a fever. Well, she didn't look 
flushed but he took her temperature and 
it was more than 103. Well, he began to 
make calls to hospitals to get a bed for 
her, but the hospitals were full. He kept 
taking her temperature, thinking there 
might be something wrong with the ther- 
mometer — she showed no other symptoms, 
and even her pulse was normal. The doc- 
tor called the drug store, got another 
thermometer, took her temperature again 
— and it was still up. He was convinced 
that she was very ill. Then we discovered 
she was going into the kitchen and drink- 
ing hot coffee each time before he took 
her temperature!" 

Dot recalls, with a laugh, "That was 
nothing to the day she came into my bed- 
room crying, "*I've scalded my face. I'm 
scarred.' And her face did look awful. 
'I did it with a scalding washcloth,' she 
said, 'I didn't mean to do it.' I got so 
upset — then she started laughing and told 
me she had put raw egg on her face." 

The girls, so close for so many years, 
are extra sensitive to individual moods. 
When one gets in the dumps, the other 
two go into action immediately. Phyl can 
be helped out of a bad mood with food — a 
basket of fruit or even just talk about a 
good Italir restaurant. Chris loves clothes 
and anything new to wear lifts her into 
the clouds. Dot likes records — a new Si- 
natra album, maybe — or a new book. 

Dot is usually the balance wheel. While 
Phyl takes care of appointments, and Chris 
takes care of the clothes, Dot takes care 
of her sisters. She is most often the 
peace-maker. None of their arguments is 
ever serious, but the girls will never sim- 
ply flip a coin to come to a decision. They 
never give in to one another. They talk 
and talk until they have reasoned out the 
problem. And they never part until the 
issue is settled. 

"Sisters usually love one another. We 
do, too," says Phyl. "But, besides, we 
like one another. Of course, there are 
times when we wish for privacy. We al- 
ways know each other's business. There 
are no secrets. The one time Chris tried 
to throw a surprise party for me, she 
nearly went crazy. It was impossible. It 
was not a successful surprise — but a very 
successful party." 

"When you're a trio, there is always 
something exciting going on," Chris beams, 
"or something exciting going wrong. But, 
when there is any excitement or some- 
thing new to look forward to, we all share 
it. And, when something goes wrong, you 
don't have to suffer it out alone." 

"There's one thing, for sure, about being 
a trio," Dot smiles. "You never get lone- 
some." 




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69 






A Slightly Reformed Character 



(Continued from page 39) 
Spike Jones: "If we knocked ourselves 
out for the full half-hour every week, 
with only the same sort of stuff we did 
on the road, we'd wear out our welcome 
within a month. We'd find ourselves com- 
ing into living rooms where the family 
had gone out for the evening. This way, 
judiciously mixing some of the corn in 
with straight stuff, and with Helen's 
torchy numbers, we could get to be a 
habit." 

It's an old saw in show business that 
comedians are the most serious men in 
the trade. And, of them all, there's prob- 
ably no one more deadly in earnest about 
the business of being funny than Spike 
Jones. Certainly there's no one who works 
harder at it — no one could, because there 
aren't enough hours. Spike spent three 
days (and nights until 2 A.M.) each week 
planning his TV shows with his staff. 
Then, three more days for rehearsals, 
and, finally, one day for dress rehearsal 
and the "live" show. That adds up to 
seven — which is about par for Spike. 

It's a shame, too, that Spike can't have 
more time to enjoy his lovely Beverly 
Hills home. Located a couple of blocks 
south of Sunset Boulevard, in one of the 
older, very proper sections of Beverly 
Hills, the big Colonial mansion sets far 
back from the street, with colorful flower- 
beds lining the red brick walk. 

As one friend puts it, it's an "awfully 
square" house for Spike Jones, with its 
stately columns across the front of the 
house. But the tongue-in-cheek attitude 
Spike shows towards many things greets 
the visitor, even before he has a chance 
to lift his hand to the brass knocker. The 
huge doormat is lettered: "Stokowski." 

Inside the house, there appear to be ex- 
cellent copies of world-famous master- 
pieces. It's only the more careful second 
glance which reveals that the "Blue Boy" 
on one wall actually has Spike's face, and 
wears tennis sneakers. Opposite him, the 
"Whistler's Mother" sitting so sedately 
in her straight chair has a copy of the 
Daily Racing Form folded neatly across 
her lap. And, across the room, the enig- 
matic smile of the "Mona Lisa" appears 
below two eyes as crossed as two eyes 
could be. 

Ihe two Jones offspring — Spike, Jr., 
who's just turned 8, and Leslie Ann, 5— 
are two of the healthiest, huskiest, most 
normal little characters you could im- 
agine. Mary Foster, who has had them in 
her charge for the last two years obviously 
adores them, but claims they can be as 
"hammy" as the next when they feel like 
it. 

Little Leslie Ann, with the promise of 
future beauty already on her little pug- 
nosed face, is currently as much a tom- 
boy as rough-and-ready Spike Junior. 
She could hardly escape being that, 
Helen points out, since the neighborhood 
is overrun with small boys, and no girls. 
In order to have someone to play with, 
she plays with boys. "This will be fine," 
Mary points out, prophetically, "if these 
boys just stay put until high school. 
Leslie will have all the dates she can 
handle, right in the block!" 

Spike Junior's household chores cur- 
rently include cleaning the bird cage for 
the family parakeet, a gorgeous character 
solemnly called Saul. The Jones me- 
nagerie, generally a fluctuating community, 
T is now at one of its low points, census- 
V wise. Besides Saul, there's Irving, the 
r silver-colored poodle. And there are the 
tropical fish: In a ten-foot-long aquarium, 
set at eye-level into the wall of the fam- 



ily room, swim some of the biggest angel- 
fish in private captivity. Spike claims 
these are a sort of "food bank," and would 
pass as filet of sole if times ever get lean. 

Among his "extracurricular" activities, 
Spike Junior has picked up judo. There 
was probably never a more surprised 
father than Spike Senior one evening not 
long ago. "Daddy," Spike Junior requested, 
with wide-eyed innocence, "there's some- 
thing I want to try on you." Always ready 
to oblige his son, Spike Senior took the 
stance his son dictated. The next thing 
he knew, he was flat on his back. 

Actually, it's only poetic justice that 
the Jones young have a mischievous 
streak. Pop has been playing jokes on the 
public for so many years, it somehow 
seems highly suitable that he now has 
someone to return the compliment. 

The Spike Jones brand of musical tom- 
foolery probably got its real start years 
ago, when Spike was only a youngster 
in Long Branch, California. Of course, 
Spike claims some of the "corn" may have 
been brought West by his father, the 
late Lindley M. Jones, a native of Earl- 
ham, Iowa. The elder Jones was a railroad 
telegrapher for fifty -five years, and 
brought his family to Long Beach when 
Spike was a boy. 

Whether that "corn" was inherited is, 
of course, debatable. But when Spike was 
only knee-high to a tuba, he developed a 
burning passion to own and play a trom- 
bone. His indulgent parents helped pad 
out his savings, and he acquired the 
coveted instrument. Then he discovered, 
much to his distress, that his arms were 
too short to play the trombone properly. 
With a mighty effort, he could manage to 
fling the slide out to the eighth position — 
but, by no amount of stretching, could 
he reach to pull it back in. 

Even then, Spike was a creature of 
perseverance. He rigged up a Rube Gold- 
berg-type arrangement, whereby he tied 
one end of a string to his little finger, 
the other end to the slide arm of the 
trombone. Out would go the slide, then 
he'd reel it in again, using the string. 
This proved not only a highly efficient 
means of playing the trombone, it also 
reaped unexpected results: His audi- 
ence laughed like crazy every time he 
went into action. 

It was only after considerable convinc- 
ing on his part that his parents finally 
gave him their blessing to join a dance 
band, led by Dwight Defty. A few months 
later, he organized his own dance group — 
called it "Spike Jones and his Five Tacks." 
They played over a Long Beach radio 
station, KFOX, until Spike was graduated 
from high school. At Chaffee Junior Col- 
lege in Ontario, California, Spike joined 
the Ray West Orchestra, and from there 
went on to jobs in other bands. 

It was while he was playing drums with 
John Scott Trotter, on the old Bing Cros- 
by radio show, that the "musical de- 
preciation" idea really hit him. It was 
Spike's job, each time they came on the 
air, to hit the chimes which announced 
Bing's opening number. Someone re- 
marked one night that they sure hoped 
he'd never hit a sour note. The possi- 
bility of error had never occurred to him 
before, but the suggestion suddenly made 
him very conscious of those opening 
chimes. And, sure enough, the very next 
show, he hit the wrong bar. The re- 
sponse was not what everyone feared, 
however. The orchestra practically fell 
apart at the seams, laughing. 

The bit started Spike to thinking. If 
striking a wrong note, quite by accident, 
was such a big, comic thing — why not 



just work up some planned sour notes? 

With a group of fellow musicians, who 
had been kidding around with music in 
their off hours for some time, he worked 
up some novelty tunes, and they cut a 
couple of records. One of these came to 
the attention of some recording officials, 
and the group was signed to a contract. 

One of the first discs the group cut, un- 
der contract, was a musical commentary 
on Adolf Hitler— this was in 1942. The 
first time they recorded it, Spike ended 
the number with an ad-libbed, resound- 
ing, and very juicy Bronx cheer. 

The record, titled "Der Fuehrer's 
Face," was released on a Saturday. By 
Monday, Spike was signed to play in a 
Warner Bros, motion picture, "Thank 
Your Lucky Stars." On Tuesday, he 
signed a radio contract. On Wednesday, 
he appeared on a Bob Burns radio show. 
And, on Friday, he signed a new record- 
ing contract. By the following Sunday, 
Spike recalls, they had to chain him to 
keep his feet on the ground. And things 
haven't slowed down much since. 

In his thirty-six-months zoom into the 
stratosphere, between 1942 and 1946, 
Spike Jones became one of the "hottest" 
things in show business. His records were 
selling like hot cakes are supposed to sell, 
he had a radio show, did more movies 
than he cares to be reminded of. 

Then, in 1946, he decided to get the show 
on the road. He organized his "Musical 
Depreciation Revue," and toured with 
this madness until May, 1953. In Spike's 
company were forty people, including 
thirteen musicians — a term many claimed 
to be pretty loose talk. But, as Spike 
pointed out, and still stoutly maintains, 
it takes an unusually good musician to 
play as badly as his men do, on cue. 

"Mad" and "zany" are actually pretty 
pale words to use to describe the pres- 
entations that were put on by Spike 
Jones and his City Slickers. Besides the 
standard fiddles, trumpets, saxophones 
and trombones, the City Slickers were 
adept at playing tuned flit- guns, bicycle 
pumps that whistled, telephone bells 
which rang in key, and bagpipes which 
exploded on cue. At one point, the bass 
viol was flung open to disclose a min- 
iature kitchenette. The cello would belch 
firecrackers, and the tuba blew tiiba- 
size bubbles. As a clincher, the harp 
popped corn, dispensed soft drinks, and 
shot arrows into the air at appropriate 
moments. 

Yet the band still managed to work 
in a tune, here and there. They spoofed 
the classics, from Brahms straight through 
to Tchaikovsky. They shot holes in the 
sentimental ballads {one of the master- 
pieces they turned out during this era 
was "Cocktails for Two," which record is 
still a popular seller in the music shops). 

Maybe the psychologists would have 
another diagnosis of this national pheno- 
menon. But, to the untutored mind, it 
looked a lot like Lindley Jones, in kick- 
ing the sacred cows of music in the slats, 
was performing a vicarious service for 
all frustrated citizens. For years, these 
much-put-upon citizens had yearned to 
take a swat at the conventions stifling 
them — but lacked the courage. Along came 
Spike, without an inhibited bone in his 
body, and did it for them. 

In 1948, when Spike and his City 
Slickers were really riding high, he met 
Helen. Their first meeting was at the ! 
Hollywood Palladium, where she was 
singing. They met again at the old Troca- 
dero, where they were both on the same 
bill. Later, she came to work with the 



band, and in July, 1948, the newspapers 
gaily announced that "Spike Jones Marries 
the Hired Help." 

If the wedding was quiet, it was prob- 
ably a pretty good thing. Because there 
hasn't been a lot of quiet, since then. Life 
in the Jones household is rarely tran- 
quil, never dull. For a while, it just 
practically didn't exist — at least, the home 
life didn't. Helen went off on a tour 
of her own, a couple of years ago. Spike, 
making some personal appearances at this 
same time, claims that all they got to see 
of each other during this period was when 
they'd wave as their trains passed each 
other, going in opposite directions. 

If the pace hasn't slackened, at least 
they're going in the same direction nowa- 
days. On TV, Helen decorates at least 
two spots on Spike's show each week, 
and they are together for rehearsals, as 
well as for the rare times when they man- 
age to be home simultaneously. 

Among those rare times, the most pleas- 
ant are when Helen's family shows up for 
some celebration or other. Spike, an only 
child, acquired quite a family when he 
married Helen. She has, besides her 
parents, five brothers and five sisters, all 
of whom live only a matter of minutes 
from the Jones house. 

When the whole Grayco family gathers, 
as it does for Grandpa or Grandma Gray- 
co's birthdays, or other national holidays, 
they can count fifty-five heads. That is, 
if those heads stay up above water in 
the Jones swimming pool long enough to 
be counted. 

Spike is always in the middle of the 
mob, stirring up the fun. He has the 
stern-jawed, deadpan face which would 
do credit to an ancient owl, but the mind 
could be Puck's, or a comic-opera ver- 
sion of Mephistopheles. He's always tip- 
ping the youngsters off on some new 
deviltry, or slyly egging the brothers-in- 
law into some practical joke on one of the 
girls. To the thirty-one Grayco grand- 
children, Spike is another Pied Piper. 

No one will ever deny that Spike Jones 
loves youngsters, especially his own two. 
But he does refuse to let them dictate 
what he is to do, and when he is to do it. 
It just happens that Spike believes parents 
have a few rights to assert, too. 

Assert himself he did, recently. Bogged 
down by an inescapable load of re- 
hearsals and planning sessions, he ran 
headlong into Spike Junior's birthday. 
Leaving himself wide open, he admits, 
he asked the boy what he'd like to do 
for his birthday. Without a moment's 
hesitation, the lad replied that he wanted 
to take some chums to Disneyland. 

"I simply couldn't get away for the 
entire day it would require to make that 
kind of a trip. But I couldn't give the 
boy that kind of an excuse — at eight, 
things like rehearsals and work schedules 
just don't mean much. So I just explained 
how Disneyland is in Philadelphia, and 
the trip would take too long. He agreed 
he'd just as soon go to the 'Ice Follies,' 
which was playing just a couple of miles 
down the pike. But," Spike sighs, "he's 
still a little bothered about how a couple 
of his friends managed to make it to 
Philadelphia and back in the same day." 

There will, of course, come a day of 
reckoning. One fine day Spike Junior's 
geography will improve, and Spike Sen- 
ior will be brought to account for such 
parental connivance. It would be fun to 
be around, and find out what trick Spike 
Junior plays on his dad to even up the 
score. It's bound to be a good one, and it 
will serve him right. Anyone who's per- 
petrated as many tricks on as many peo- 
ple as has Spike Jones, deserves at least 
a little comeuppance — even if it's from 
his own son! 




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71 






Come to the Aid of Your Party 



(Continued from page 49) 
drive for children's aid, a bazaar. Even a 
small party might profit from it." 

Two children can be on the Refreshment 
Committee, to decide on the food and how 
it is to be served. Two can get the inex- 
pensive favors and prizes at any local 
variety store or similar treasure trove, as 
part of the Game Committee — they can 
decide what games shall be played, too. 
A Picture Committee can include the chil- 
dren with cameras who would like to take 
snapshots. A Clean-up Committee can be 
made up of an older girl and boy who can 
stay a while after the party is over — and 
will think it's fun, as Mrs. Mace's children 
do. (Sometimes they get the extra cookies 
or cakes left over!) The important thing 
is for the child to participate in as many 
ways as possible. Here are some of Mrs. 
Mace's ideas: 

Decorations: Children love bright colors, 
fresh bouquets of flowers on the table, 
bright paper garlands, amusing or fanciful 
cutouts, inexpensive favors made by them- 
selves or bought at the variety store, 
pretty lace-paper doilies and fancy paper 
napkins. The adult who lets her child as- 
sist in all this is making that party mem- 
orable for days in advance and perhaps 
for years afterward. It can be a lesson in 
choosing harmonious colors and in creat- 
ing something pretty from quite ordinary 
materials. 

Invitations: Whether given informally, 
by telephone, in person, or by mail, in- 
vitations should be explicit as to the hour 
when the party will begin and will end, 
so provision can be made by families to 
get the children to the party on time and 
get them home on time. There should be 
no doubt about transportation arrange- 
ments, especially for very young children 
or for older ones who will leave a party 
after dark. The young host's or hostess's 
mother has the job of finding out who's 
bringing and picking up whom, as this 
is an adult responsibility. 

Chaperones: The question of whether 
parents — or older brothers or sisters — 
should accompany the children at the 
party is one to be decided between hostess 
and families of the guests. At The Mace 
School, mothers are discouraged from 
hovering too closely, except for those 
needed to keep things moving happily and 
perhaps to assist at refreshment time. 
"Just remember, it's a party for the chil- 
dren," says Mrs. Mace, "and they don't 
like to be watched every moment under 
those circumstances, as long as there is 
at least one responsible adult close by. It 
spoils a child's pleasure to be told, on the 
way home, that she did this or that wrong. 
If there has been something that needs 
correction, hold off a while — perhaps until 
the next invitation comes." 

Sociability: The wallflower problem 



may begin early, if a little girl (or even 
a boy) is timid and shy. Mrs. Mace tells 
her children: "We think too often that 
everything should come our way, without 
our making enough effort. You must not 
expect that everyone will be trying to 
make you happy every minute. You have 
to do some of it yourself. Make yourself 
happy. Join in the fun with the others." 

Children should be taught how to draw 
other children into the circle of fun. 
"Every child must be drawn into something 
at a party," Mrs. Mace says. "When a 
mother teaches a child to be kind to other 
children, she is not only teaching party 
manners but the best possible way of life. 
No child should be allowed to feel left out 
and unimportant. We ask our children who 
can perform to get up without coaxing and 
entertain the others. These are not neces- 
sarily the professional children. All the 
children have talents they love to use. We 
tell those who may not feel like doing 
something at the moment that, if they do 
a good job under those circumstances, it 
proves they are really adaptable. That it's 
even better to make a success of some- 
thing when you didn't feel like doing it." 

Bonnie Sawyer has worked out her own 
idea for a neighborhood or school or com- 
munity party. Sometimes not all the chil- 
dren are known to one another, so she 
has made a tag for each child to wear, 

lettered: "I'm . Who are you?" 

This is a good idea for adult parties, too, 
where introductions are spoken quickly, 
and names forgotten, or where the crowd 
is too large for individual introductions. 
The children love it, and even a potential 
wallflower is bound to get acquainted and 
become part of the group. 

Games: The wise adult tells a child to 
take part in all the activities at a party, 
even if he doesn't happen to like all the 
games the others are playing. If you don't 
know how to play a certain game, she 
advises, ask to have it explained to you. 

Kissing games seem to go with parties 
and it's Frieda Mace's belief that you can't 
stop them, that the kids look upon them 
as they would upon other party games, 
and that it's a mistake to make them seem 
important by objecting. A grownup should 
be around, unobtrusively, ready to suggest 
other activities. 

The most fun for children, of course, are 
the active games, if the weather is nice 
outdoors or there is room enough indoors. 
Small objects that can be jarred off tables 
or thrown to the floor should be put away. 
Mother's best lamp should be pushed safe- 
ly out of reach. 

An interesting modern version of the 
game called "Going to Jerusalem" or 
"Musical Chairs" is to seat the children in 
a circle or oval on the floor and pass some 
small, smooth object from one to the other. 
Even an orange or a well-washed potato 



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will do — no fruit that will crack open, 
nothing that has sharp edges or can jab. 
Whoever is caught with the object in his 
hands, as the music stops, meets the same 
fate as if he had been left without a chair 
to sit on in the older version of this game. 
The absence of the chairs and the march- 
ing around fits better into smaller rooms. 

Word games are always fun, if they are 
not played so long that the children get 
weary. Older youngsters, the ones in sixth, 
seventh and eighth grades, love them. 
But variety is the spice of any party, so 
no game should be played until the chil- 
dren get restless. 

Dancing: This is tops, especially for the 
older children. The Bunny Hop, the Lindy 
— square dancing, if you have a big enough 
room, or a game room or playroom in the 
basement. It's wisest to consult the kids 
here, and find out what they like to do. 
Some of the children at Mace have a sys- 
tem at their own parties for hearing all 
their favorite recordings. Each child brings 
one or two, marked with his name on a 
tiny piece of adhesive tape attached to the 
middle of the record. This way, records 
can easily be identified and collected at 
going-rhome time. 

Refreshments: Little children still like 
sandwiches — peanut butter, and jelly — the 
traditional party ice cream and cake. 
Older children go for Cokes and Peosis 
and root beer, potato chips and pretzels, 
apples and doughnuts (for square danc- 
ing) — and, of course, hamburgers and 
frankfurters. Cookies that satisfy, some- 
times individual little cakes, each with one 
candle on it, instead of a traditional birth- 
day cake. A cute idea for summer drinks, 
or cold drinks at any time, is to dip the 
rim of the glass in orange juice and then 
into granulated sugar, with enough cling- 
ing to form an edge. Put in the refrig- 
erator until ready to fill with whatever 
drink you are serving. The child sips the 
drink by way of a sparkling frosted-orange 
rim and is delighted with the new taste. 

Sit-down or buffet serving depends upon 
the hostess's facilities and room. Also upon 
the value she places upon her rugs and 
furnishings! A game room with a floor 
designed for easy cleaning admits of pass- 
ing paper plates and cups and balancing 
them in small hands. A back yard takes a 
lot of punishment. Or even a porch. Many 
families find the dining room table the 
safest place for serving, or they set up 
card tables. 

Mrs. Mace reminds her children it is not 
necessary to race for the food, and it is 
necessary to wait until all are served at a 
table. They are told to keep a plate passed 
to them unless they are asked to pass it 
along, to watch the hostess if they are not 
sure when to start and what silver to use, 
but also to remember that it's a party and 
not to worry too much about some unim- 
portant error. 

A child should be reminded, if neces- 
sary, not to comment on something he 
doesn't like, to keep it on his plate and 
eat a little of it if he can. Never, never, 
Mrs. Mace tells the children, ask to have 
something removed from your plate, or 
make a fuss about it. Eat a second portion 
of something else, if it's passed to you. 
Don't say anything rude. Don't talk to just 
one child. If you have a joke to tell, that's 
fine, but be sure it's a nice joke that every- 
one will enjoy, and be sure it won't hurt 
anyone's feelings. 

Bringing a present: Hand it to the per- 
son for whom it is intended, and put in a 
card so it will be remembered as yours, 
no matter how many it may get mixed up ! 
with, in the excitement of arriving. If 
parties in your community are frequent 
enough to be financially burdensome, you 



might suggest that, for your own children's 
party, you are limiting presents to a cer- 
tain price level, the kind that can be pur- 
chased at the ever-useful neighborhood 
variety or toy store. Kids love gifts, espe- 
cially when they get a lot at one time, and 
don't care a bit what they cost. The fun is 
in the opening, so help your child to wrap 
the presents prettily — and let him use his 
own ideas if he wants to. 

Family Parties: Those special occasions 
at Christmas or birthday time are more 
fun when a child or a group of children 
distribute the gifts, make their own little 
presentation speeches, plan the way in 
which everything is to be done. At The 
Mace School, the children learn poise and 
assurance by acting as masters and mis- 
tresses of ceremonies at the monthly as- 
semblies, introducing the children who are 
to perform or contribute in any way. 
Adapting this plan to any close-knit group, 
such as a family or church or school, even 
timid children can get up and do a good 
job — good for them and fun for the others. 

Party Dress Up: Simple little dresses 
for the girls, white or pastels, or a tailored 
dress prettied up with beads or a flower 
or a fancy collar or belt. Never, even at 
the Mace Graduation Prom, an off-the- 
shoulder dress for a pre-high-school child. 
A little sleeve, usually, at the Prom. Stock- 
ings can be worn instead of socks, a little 
heel, not more than an inch or so. Sports 
jackets and slacks for the boys, or a suit. 
Tie and white shirt for an important party, 
otherwise a sports shirt. 

A little girl's hair can be put up in a 
pony tail or caught back with a barette or 
band. Girls like to wear their hair a little 
differently at a party, just as their mothers 
do. Nails buffed, without gaudy polish, 
soap-and-water skin, maybe a touch of 
natural-looking lipstick for the older girls, 
because it makes them feel very partified 
and elegant. The same goes for a light 
cologne or toilet water. Deodorants for 
both girls and boys. The boys are told 
that, if they want to get girls interested in 
them — and certainly if they want dancing 
partners — their hair must be clean, also 
their hands and nails; their shoes shined, 
their faces scrubbed. They seem to get the 
idea. 

Time to Leave: A child should be taught 
to gather up all his belongings when he 
leaves — little girls' handbags, boys' caps, 
overshoes or rubbers, umbrellas, rain- 
coats. Toys or records that have been 
brought along, favors given to be taken 
home. If a child has been told to leave a 
party at a certain time, and refreshments 
have not yet been served, he can ask to 
use the telephone and explain to his moth- 
er. If he must leave anyhow — and this is 
the hardest part of all — the hostess should 
try to wrap up at least a few of the goodies. 
If he makes a fuss about leaving, he should 
be reminded that when he leaves willingly 
he earns the privilege of going to other 
parties. A good hostess guards against 
serving too late for every child to be pres- 
ent, however. 

Mrs. Mace impresses on the children to 
respect the home they go into, as they do 
their own, as they do their school. "Don't 
let your parents and your training down," 
she says to them. As a teacher, as a woman 
who has had four children of her own 
and whose grown-up daughter Alyce is 
now a talented actress-singer, Mrs. Mace 
has been close to many children all 
through her life. "No teacher has any 
trouble with educating children in the 
Three R's, when the parents will cooper- 
ate," she smiles. "Understanding parents 
hold the key to a child's happiness, to his 
standing at school, to his fun at parties. 
The rule is to keep children busy and oc- 
cupied — happily busy. And to let them 
participate in their own parties as much 
as possible." 



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Meet the Quiz Kings Face to Face! 



(Continued from page 25) 
sidered for the job, including some top 
emcees in TV and radio, important com- 
mentators, well-known stage, screen and 
TV actors. The story is practically the 
same for every quizmaster. He had to be 
tops, and he has to stay tops against the 
keenest kind of competition. 

Here is what may get you on The 
$64,000 Question: You — or someone who 
thinks you're smart enough to compete — 
write a letter to the show, in care of 
CBS-TV, 485 Madison Avenue, New York 
22, N. Y. The letter will be one of a possi- 
ble 10,000 or more received that week, so 
it obviously should be as informative and 
impressive as you can make it. 

If you sound interesting for their show, 
you will get a questionnaire in the mail, 
asking for information about your back- 
ground and education, special fields of in- 
terest or service, hobbies, availability for 
the program if and when called — plus the 
photo request. You will be asked to give 
three or more character references. This 
has nothing to do with financial or social 
status — you can be the humblest, plainest 
person. It does have to do with being the 
kind of contestant who will in no way 
embarrass himself or the program. 

The next move, if your answers to the 
questionnaire interest the powers-that-be, 
will be a personal call from someone con- 
nected with the show, who will ask for 
more details and form a personal judg- 
ment. If this screening process satisfies the 
caller that you are a good bet, you will 
then be asked to visit the show's offices in 
New York. (From out of town, at their 
expense, if you seem likely material.) 

Here the plot thickens, and you get your 
first experience as a quiz contestant, and 
as a character to whom this kind of won- 
derful thing couldn't possibly be happen- 
ing. (But it is.) You are made to feel com- 
fortable and at ease, while questions in the 
subject that interests you are asked by a 
group of the staff members. Your range of 
knowledge — or lack of it — shows up fairly 
quickly. If it's good, and they decide you 
have the personality to stand up under 
TV broadcasting conditions, the chances 
are that you're in. And on. 

The $64,000 Challenge works about the 
same way. Those who want to match 
knowledge with a $64,000 Question cham- 
pion face the same procedures before ap- 
pearing with the champ and with Ralph 
Story, the relaxed master of ceremonies. 
Ralph, thirty-seven this August, original- 
ly came from Kalamazoo, Michigan, start- 
ed on local radio stations, moved on to 
radio in Buffalo, New York. He was a P-51 
Mustang pilot, with sixty-three fighter- 
escort missions to his credit on the Euro- 
pean continent during World War II, went 
back to Buffalo radio, finally to CBS-TV 
in Los Angeles, before his present assign- 
ment. He has a teen-age son. 

Ralph's one of the new breed of quiz- 
masters who give out with no fireworks, 
no dramatics, but keep the suspense and 
drama intrinsic to the whole concept of 
the show. They work with quiet sincerity, 
have poise that communicates to the con- 
testants. All successful quizmasters, past 
and present, have great warmth with the 
people they meet on the shows and the 
knack of making the contestant seem the 
real star, rather than themselves. 

Hal March emerged in his middle 30's 
as the quiet-voiced quizmaster of The 
T $64,000 Question, after a long preparation 
¥ ranging from public performances as ama- 
R teur welterweight boxer in his late teens 
to night-club comedian and featured per- 
former on some of the country's most pop- 



ular radio and TV programs. He served in 
the Army as a radar operator in the Coast 
Artillery, later was half of the comedy 
team of Sweeney and March, was the 
"next-door neighbor" on the Burns and 
Allen show and, later, Imogene Coca's TV 
husband on her series. He is married to 
the former Candy Toxton Torme, dotes on 
her little boy and girl by a former mar- 
riage — and their own baby son, born this 
past June. 

The programs, Twenty-One and Tic Tac 
Dough, on NBC-TV, are produced by the 
company of which Jack Barry, their em- 
cee, is an executive. (They also have an 
exciting new one called High-Low.) Pros- 
pective contestants for either Twenty-One 
or Tic Tac Dough (based on the old child- 
hood game of Tick-Tack-Toe) should 
write a letter all about themselves and 
address it to the producers, Barry & En- 
right, 667 Madison Avenue, New York 21, 
N. Y. If the letter catches their interest, 
anyone who is in the New York area — or 
expects to be there shortly — receives a 
note giving instructions to call the office 
for an appointment. 

At the office, the would-be contestant 
takes a preliminary written examination 
consisting of one hundred multiple-choice 
questions. This takes about half an hour. 
If contestants score extremely well, and 
appear to be acceptable personally, they 
are then asked if they want to take the 
further examination for Twenty-One, the 
tougher and financially more richly re- 
warding of the two shows (prize money 
on Tic Tac Dough, however, has risen to 
around $15,000, on occasion). Many per- 
sons have no desire to get on a big program 
like Twenty-One, feeling that Tic Tac 
Dough will be less strenuous and more 
fun for them personally. In that case, they 
meet with one of the staff members of that 
show for further interview, and if ap- 
proved by him are passed on to the pro- 
ducer, who makes final decision. (Inci- 
dentally, look for Tic Tac Dough to become 
a night-time show on September 12.) 

Now that we have disposed of T.T.D. 
and can go back to Twenty-One — and the 
contestants who have scored up to or be- 
yond a certain high mark in the first writ- 
ten examination and have elected to take 
the stiffer exam — we'll find out just how 
stiff it is. This one, too, is written, requires 
about three hours, covers 363 questions in 
121 categories! The contestant who "pass- 
es" is brought in to meet the producer of 
Twenty-One, who talks to him quite a 
while. It's a sort of personality test. After 
that, there's the meeting with the pro- 
gram's two top men, who make all final 
decisions, to ensure that each contestant 
will be the kind of person you yourself 
would like to have visit your home. 

A word here is necessary for those who 
live out of town: These two programs send 
a man around the country to interview 
people who have written interesting let- 
ters. He brings in his reports, accompanied 
by snapshots or photos, and on the basis 
of these it is determined whether certain 
people should be flown to New York at 
the show's expense for interviews. 

Jack Barry, emcee of Twenty-One and 
also of the daytime version of Tic Tac 
Dough, was a salesman thirteen years ago, 
and he still has the easy and pleasant, but 
decisive manner of a good businessman. 
Now in his late 30's, he has had a fine ca- 
reer in top-rated TV and radio shows. He 
is married to the former Marcia Van 
Dyke, who was an actress, singer and con- 
cert violinist. They have two young sons. 

If you are — or plan to be — in the area 
of Hollywood, California, and you want to 
join Groucho and match wits with that 



wily Mr. Marx on You Bet Your Life, 
there are several ways to do it. You could 
be sought out by the program for a num- 
ber of reasons: Something interesting has 
been told or written about you (in which 
case they may seek you, wherever you 
are). Or your job makes you stand out — 
you're a public official, a distinguished 
foreign visitor, an explorer, a religious 
leader (practically every faith has been 
represented to date). Or a wild-animal 
trainer — a VIP of any sort. (Groucho has 
a ball poking fun at big-name contestants, 
has found them to be folks who can "take 
it," whereas a little guy hasn't the same 
defenses. So he really lets loose on the 
bigger fellows, who can look out for them- 
selves, and everyone gets kicks out of it.) 

You could be "discovered" by one of 
the. program's representatives who, work- 
ing with the sponsor, set up booths at state 
fairs and rodeos and such places, talk to 
people in general and keep on the lookout 
for those who seem likely candidates for 
the show. Or you could write to the show 
itself, care of NBC-TV, Sunset and Vine, 
Hollywood, Calif., or call the show's offices 
for an interview appointment. Three staff 
members conduct these interviews, and 
much depends upon their first impressions. 

"Anyone who wants an interview with 
us can come in and have it. We never re- 
fuse anyone," a staff interviewer told us. 
"We try to get a balance with six people 
planned for a show, all different. Never 
all men or all women, never all married 
couples. We like good down-to-earth 
housewives. They are the bread-and-but- 
ter of the show. Everybody roots for them; 
viewers love them. If they have an inter- 
esting hobby, this helps, but they don't 
have to. We like people, too, who are in 
the workaday business world. We often 
select contestants on the basis of sheer 
personality, because we think viewers will 
enjoy them. Contestants should lack self- 
consciousness, be warm and friendly— and, 
of course, reasonably well-informed to an- 
swer questions from Groucho." 

Another way of getting on Yoii Bet Your 
Life is to be in the studio audience, but 
that's for a later date and not the same 
evening. Write well in advance for tickets 
— the usual four-to-eight weeks — and join 
the crowd going in, try to be "dated" for 
an interview, be as natural as you can and 
tell everything about yourself that will 
put you in an interesting light. Don't go, 
expecting to be chosen for the current 
performance — contestants have already 
been selected for that date and are not 
plucked from studio audiences shortly be- 
fore air time. 

The rapid-fire, cigar-puffing quipmaster 
and quizmaster of You Bet Your Life, 
Groucho Marx, came up through years of 
vaudeville, stage, many Hollywood mov- 
ies and a succession of radio and TV 
shows. He was long famous as the domi- 
nant and tart-tongued member of the 
Marx Brothers, a team which at various 
times included all four of his brothers — 
Chico, Harpo, Zeppo and Gummo. 

It was Mama Marx, an accomplished 
harpist herself, who started her five sons 
in a music-vaudeville career. Papa was a 
tailor who must have had a rich sense of 
humor and fun to have gone along with 
the whole zany crew of Marx offspring. 
Groucho himself has a daughter Miriam 
and son Arthur who are both writers. Ar- 
thur did a biography of his dad, brought 
up the question of whether Dad is really 
a sentimentalist whose air of disillusion- 
ment hides his real feelings, or whether he 
is as world-weary a cynic as he sounds, 
especially when he's kidding a contestant. 



Groucho's comment was typical: "I ask 
the questions, I don't answer them." His 
eleven-year-old daughter, Melinda, has 
appeared with him on television, seems 
likely to carry on the thespian tradition. 

Two For The Money should be addressed 
in care of CBS-TV in New York 
(address already given). The producers of 
this show look for interesting facts, 
unusual hobbies or occupations, or any 
other qualities that make contestants 
stand out to advantage. This show prefers 
a snapshot or other photo (non-return- 
able) with the initial letter. (If you have 
any to spare, it is never a bad idea to send 
along a snapshot with your first request in 
writing any program.) Here, as in every 
other case, your letter should be as in- 
formative and provocative as possible. You 
want to be invited for an interview. 

Dr. Mason Gross, Provost and Professor 
of Philosophy at Rutgers University, as- 
sists emcee Sam Levenson, hands out the 
questions and is the judge of the correct- 
ness of all answers. Questions on this show 
get progressively harder, but are not too 
demanding at any time, and the whole at- 
mosphere is one of fun, rather than strong 
competition for money prizes. 

oam Levenson, who has been called "the 
ex-schoolteacher with the sugar-coated 
psychology and a million-dollar smile," 
livens the show with his own warm and 
bubbling personality and his endless fund 
of stories about kids and parents and 
family relationships, keeping it part Sam 
Levenson monologues and only part quiz, 
a system which seems to make everyone 
happy. Everyone knows that Sam is a 
happily married man and that there is a 
son, Conrad — who seems smart enough 
and witty enough himself to grow up to be 
a quizmaster before long — as well as a 
small daughter, Emily. 

Name That Tune, the musical quiz, 
should be addressed as follows: Name 
That Tune, Box 199, New York 11, N. Y. 
Your letter should be detailed enough to 
take the place of a personal interview. 
"Pretend that one of our staff members 
is sitting in your kitchen having a cup of 
coffee with you, and you're just chatting," 
is their advice. 

Don't send a mere list of vital statistics, 
although these can be included — your 
height, your weight, your age, etc. Be sure 
to send along a list of seven songs to make 
up a Golden Medley of your choice. They 
suggest a variety of tunes, all of which 
should be familiar ones — some old, some 
new, some fast, some slower. And they're 
sure to want a smiling snapshot. (Since 
fewer men submit entries to the program, 
a man has an especially good chance.) 

This is not a show for "experts." No one 
type of contestant has proved better than 
others at naming tunes. Grand-prize win- 
ners have included a fireman and farm 
wives, a teacher and grammar-school stu- 
dents. Those who like music, who live in 
its atmosphere by listening to television, 
radio, recordings, and are quick to re- 
cognize a tune and to recollect its name, 
stand the best chance. Contestants are 
paired off to win a possible $25,000 and 
home viewers participate by sending in 
their own Golden Medleys. 

Thirty-four-year-old George de Witt, 
quizmaster of Name That Tune, began his 
show-business career as a high-school 
boy in Atlantic City, New Jersey, while 
doubling as a singing waiter. He served 
in the Merchant Marine (Norwegian), in 
the British Royal Air Force, and as a 
United States Army Air Force pilot after 
this country entered the war. He is well 
known as a TV and night-club headliner. 
Everybody who watches Name That Tune, 
and George, knows he has a little boy 
named Jay who is the biggest prize in his 



daddy's life and is apparently headed, at 
three years of age, for a brilliant show- 
business career of his own later on. 

To get on Walt Framer's ever-popular 
Strike It Rich, your reason for wanting 
to "strike it rich" is the all-important fac- 
tor. Write a letter to the program, care of 
CBS-TV in New York, explaining as fully 
as possible why you would like to win 
some money. The program will notify you 
if you are being considered, and invite 
you to come in for an interview. The 
kind of person you are, the way in which 
you are likely to conduct yourself on the 
air, are of considerable importance, of 
course. But the big thing here is your 
motive for wanting to appear on the show 
and your need of the money, whether for 
yourself or your family, or for the benefit 
of some other person or persons, or some 
organization or other worthwhile cause. 

Host Warren Hull, whose name is prac- 
tically synonymous with the program be- 
cause of his long association with it, was 
a musician in his school days, became a 
professional singer and broke into acting 
in stock and on Broadway and in the 
movies. He played lead parts in thirty-six 
Hollywood motion pictures, worked in 
West Coast radio and in the East, will 
celebrate his tenth year as emcee on 
Strike It Rich. He is married, has six 
children in his immediate family, plus a 
couple of grandchildren, and considers that 
he himself has indeed struck it very rich. 

The Big Payoff caters to men as con- 
testants, but the rewards go largely to 
their womenfolk. Any man, from ten to 
one hundred, can write to the program in 
care of CBS-TV in New York. The letter 
should name the woman for whom the 
writer (male) wants to win. A husband 
may wish to win for a wife, a father for a 
daughter, a boss for a super-secretary. A 
couple attending the show in person may 
be chosen out of the audience and inter- 
viewed just before the show, if the man 
has an impressive reason for wishing to 
reward the lady. Even a "Payoff Partner" 
— a male out-of-towner who can't be in 
New York at the show — can join in the 
winnings when a contestant who is present 
answers questions for him. In addition, 
every week a woman who has no man to 
win for her is chosen from the studio 
audience, and a celebrity guest attempts 
to win for her, becoming her "man" for 
the moment. 

.fcimcee of The Big Payoff is Randy Mer- 
riman, who co-stars with glamorous Bess 
Myerson. Randy is a graduate of sports 
announcing, disk-jockeying, even circus 
barking when he was still a schoolboy. He 
has been a doorman at various big-city 
movie houses, before joining a vaude- 
ville act and then managing vaudeville 
theaters. He was a successful announcer 
on radio before he became a quizmaster, 
is married and has three children, a girl 
and two boys. 

Because it is primarily a stunt show, 
emcee Art Linkletter and People Are Fun- 
ny seek out some participants to fit cer- 
tain stunts they have in mind — never of 
course letting contestants know why they 
are being approached. "We may need a 
housewife one week," producer John 
Guedel tells us. "We may need a woman 
for some particular stunt who has a bub- 
bling, happy kind of personality, without 
any other specific requirement. A stunt 
may require a guy who has become a 
father that day, or it may require a school- 
teacher, or a newly married couple. In 
these cases, we look for them." In addi- 
tion, staff members are always on the 
lookout for interesting and resourceful 
people who capture audience enthusiasm. 

"But the two major ways to get on this 
program," Guedel continues, "are the same 



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as for most others: You write in and tell 
enough about yourself to arouse interest 
(enclosing a snapshot), and then wait to 
be asked to arjoear for a personal inter- 
view. The address is John Guedel Pro- 
ductions, 8321 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles, 
Calif. Or, you write to NBC-TV Ticket 
Division, Sunset and Vine, Hollywood, 
Calif. — four to ei?ht weeks in advance — 
and ask for tickets to a broadcast, and 
hope to be picked from the studio audience 
on the fateful day." 

After twenty-two years in the business, 
stuntmaster Art Linkletter has almost a 
sixth sense in selecting interesting and 
amusing contestants on the basis of just a 
few seconds of pre-broadcast interviewing. 
People come to the show, have a chance 
to be invited on the stage, and nobody — 
whether a pre-arranged guest or one 
picked out of the audience — knows what 
is going to be asked of him or her until 
Art says so on the air. 

Linkletter himself gives the impression 
of having a perpetual party on his own 
shows. Perhaps it is because, as the 
adopted son of a minister and his wife, he 
came smack up against the realities of 
life when he was very young, and parties 
and fun are still something to get wide- 
eyed about. He worked his way through 
San Diego State College, was attracted to 
radio and got into it while still in college. 

He's been married since 1935 to his 
pretty wife, Lois, and there are five "little 
Links." Jack, nearing 20, now appears once 
a week on Dad's House Party program, 
over CBS-TV and Radio; Dawn, 17, and 
Robert, 12, are hoping; Sharon, 10, and 
Diane 8, are still interested in dolls and 
games and TV cowboys and spacemen. 

On his daily House Party, Art's love for 
kids comes out plain for all to see, as does 
his honest and direct way of dealing with 
them. On People Are Funny, his love for 
fun-loving kids of all ages, from four to 
four-score-and-twenty, comes out, equal- 
ly plain for all to see. 

Contestants on Ralph Edwards' brain- 
child, Truth Or Consequences, are chosen 
from studio audiences, except in the case 
of what they call "frame" acts, when some- 
one is "framed" to appear for a particular 
stunt, without previous knowledge of it. 
For the average person who wants to get 
on the show, the way is simple: Just write 
NBC-TV Ticket Division, Sunset and Vine, 
Hollywood, Calif., and ask for tickets far 
enough in advance to make it possible to 
fill your request. Usually, it's about the 
standard eight weeks, but it can be much 
longer, depending on the demand, so ask 
early and state the approximate date when 
you can be on hand. 

Emcee Bob Barker and the producer 
screen and select participants during the 
half hour before show time, looking for 
those they think will fit the stunts slated 
for that day's show. If one involves a 
talkative woman, for instance, they look 
for a nice, gabby, friendly sort of girl in 
the audience. If they need a salesman type, 
they look for that kind of man. 

In the case of some pre-arranged stunts 
that have to be set up ahead of time, such 
as reunions with loved ones or old friends, 
someone close to the subject is informed 
and sees to it that the subject will be in 
the studio audience that day, unaware of 
what is to take place or his part in it. 
Carry-over stunts depend on the same 
person being available for several days, 
sometimes weeks, and in these cases, too, 
the contestants are "framed" beforehand. 

It is emcee Bob Barker who is usually 
T responsible for final choice of a contestant. 
V He has a good idea of the type of person 
r who will be fun to work with and will 
play right along with the show and have 
fun, too. Bob was born in Derrington, 
76 



Washington, got his first job in rad'o when 
he was a Drury College student in Spring- 
field, Missouri, although his big interest 
then was geology rather than dramatics. 
He was in the Navy during World War II, 
went back to college, thought that working 
in a radio station might be interesting and 
stopped in at the local station to ask for 
a job. Surprisingly, he got it. They needed 
an announcer, asked him to audition. 

He had no idea what that meant, but he 
read from a handful of papers they handed 
him, became newswriter and newscaster, 
sportscaster, disk jockey, whatever was 
required. Later, he specialized in audience 
participation shows, paving the way for his 
job on Truth Or Consequences. Bob's wife, 
Dorothy Jo, was his hieh-school sweet- 
heart. They were married when he got 
his Navy wings, and, when he began his 
radio shows, she worked along with him. 

Bob was "discovered" for Truth Or Con- 
sequences by the fellow who first made it 
famous, Ralph Edwards (now emcee of 
This Is Your Life). Ralph heard Bob do- 
ing a show of his own while listening to 
his car radio, and liked what he heard. 

Beat The Clock and The Price Is Right 
in New York, and Queen For A Day in 
Hollywood, pick all their contestants right 
out of studio audiences only a little while 
before they go on the air. Tickets for Beat 
The Clock are obtained by writing to 
CBS-TV Ticket Division, 485 Madison 
Avenue, New York 22, N. Y. This is actu- 
ally a stunt or game show, more than a 
straight quiz, and everyone in the audi- 
ence has just as good a chance to be 
chosen for it as anyone else. (We sug- 
gest you expect to wait six or eight weeks 
after your ticket request, however, as the 
letters and postcards pour in continuously.) 

Contestants are picked in pairs, most 
often being engaged or married couples, 
but not always. Sometimes two strangers 
in the audience are paired off, if both 
agree. Top prize involves a "bonus stunt" 
that starts at $5,000 and works its way up, 
week after week, in $1,000 jumps. 

Bud Collyer, emcee and co-producer of 
Beat The Clock ever since it came to 
television from radio in the spring of 1950, 
was a man ahead of the times in the re- 
strained and quiet way he works with 
contestants, keeping them in the spotlight 
and letting them have all the fun. With a 
law degree from Fordham University in 
New York, and two years of a law clerk- 
ship, Bud abandoned it all for show busi- 
ness, following the footsteps of his actress 
mother and his actress sister, June Coll- 
yer, wife of Stu Erwin. He's also married 
to an actress, Marian Shockley, has two 
teen-age daughters and a teen-age son. 

The Price Is Right, the daily morning 
program, suggests you write in well ahead 
for tickets to the broadcasts, care of NBC- 
TV Ticket Division, 30 Rockefeller Plaza, 
New York, N. Y. As mentioned, contest- 
ants are picked from the studio audience. 
The show awards prizes to contestants 
who guess the sales value of those same 
prizes, and a contestant stays on as long 
as he keeps winning over the three others 
in his "bids" for the assorted merchandise 
(valued from a few dollars to more than 
$15,000). Out-of-town and other home 
viewers participate in the biggest prizes 
via a "Showcase" bid by mail. It's not 
strictly a quiz program, as you can see, 
but falls roughly into that category. 

(Another version of The Price Is Right 
is scheduled for night-time TV viewing be- 
ginning the first week in October. Wheth- 
er Bill Cullen will be emcee of both day 
and night versions is still unannounced, as 
we go to press.) 

Bill Cullen, the present show's jaunty 
37-year-old host, had a long preparation 
for this job. He started a pre-medical 
course at the University of Pittsburgh, his 



home city, left college when family money 
got tight, worked in a garage, got a 
chance to be a Pittsburgh radio disk jock- 
ey. He has announced orchestras, done 
staff announcing, got his first big emcee 
break on a quiz show. He has been a 
midget-auto racer, a flyer, an active mem- 
ber of the civilian defense air arm. Bill is 
married to Ann Macomber, former model, 
movie and TV actress. 

Like all shows for which participants 
are picked right out of the audience, every 
candidate for Queen For A Day arrives 
on stage and on camera by following 
the same procedure. First, you write for 
tickets— to the NBC-TV Ticket Division, 
Sunset and Vine, Hollywood, Calif. — ex- 
pecting the usual eight weeks' wait. 
When you have your ticket, you fill in an- 
swers to the few simple questions on it. 
If I were chosen Queen For A Day my 
wish would be . . . and then add your 
reason. Third, you mention anything un- 
usual about yourself. That's it. 

Cards are turned in at the door as you 
enter the Moulin Rouge, where the broad- 
cast originates. They are then brought to 
a panel composed of six of the staff per- 
sonnel of the show. They go over all cards, 
reading every wish and every reason for 
wanting it to be fulfilled, and finally 
choose twenty-one. These twenty-one are 
called up on the stage by number only 
and interviewed by emcee Jack Bailey 
and the producer. Bailey himself inter- 
views them for personality, voice, general 
presentation — and the honesty and sin- 
cerity of the wish. (If the wish isn't 
sincere, that comes out during the on-the- 
air interview, and the audience rejects 
the candidate.) 

t ive women are finally chosen and 
seated at the Candidates' Table when the 
show goes on the air. They tell their stor- 
ies, the studio audience shows by its ap- 
plause (registered on an applause meter) 
which one has given the best reason for 
being Queen. The important thing here is 
to be in the Hollywood area already — or 
to say when you will be and get in your 
request for tickets well ahead — and to 
have a good and definite reason for want- 
ing to be Queen For A Day. The kind of 
reason that will stand up well under di- 
rect and searching questioning. 

Jack Bailey has been assisting at these 
coronations for eleven years, on radio and 
TV, and during that time he has dis- 
tributed around fourteen million in gifts 
to women who have flocked to the pro- 
gram from all over the country. Perhaps 
his zest for his job started back in his 
childhood, when he was chosen at the age 
of twelve to act as the church Santa Claus 
in Hampton, Iowa, where his family lived. 
In his early teens, he began to get the 
training for his future career by joining 
a touring stock company. 

Jack is a veteran performer on both 
radio and television now, has the same 
enthusiasm with which he started, thinks 
the ladies who appear on his show, bless 
'em, are wonderful. He has an attractive 
Queen of his own, his wife Carol, whom 
he married seventeen years ago. 

So there you have it. The rules are 
sometimes changed, the formats altered a 
little, so watch your television screen. An- 
nouncements to help people who want to 
participate are usually made at some 
point in each program. 

To start things off, however, in most 
cases, you write the best letter about your- 
self that you know how, remembering 
that it must compete with thousands' of 
others constantly coming in. Or join a 
studio audience and look your brightest 
when they begin rounding up the likely 
candidates. Then all you have to do is get 
up and prove you know all the answers! 




He Will Never Be a Has-Been! 



(Continued jrom page 42) 
. let the facts talk. I'd feel funny blow- 
ing my own horn." 

Gene Smith, his cousin, best friend and 
confidant, has come in from the kitchen 
of the two-room suite, along with his 
brother Carol, Arthur Hooten and Cliff 
Gleaves — all school chums and buddies 
from Memphis. Elvis looks up. 

"It's getting time for lunch," says Gene. 
"What's for you?" 

"I'm not hungry." Elvis glances at the 
publicity man Johnny Rothwell and the 
reporter. "You folks eat yet?" 

"Yes, we did," says the publicity man. 

"You got to eat," Gene insists to Elvis. 
The boys are looking concerned. 

"I don't if I'm not hungry," says Elvis. 
But with a firm "I'm sending something 
up, anyway," Gene walks out, the boys 
following. 

Elvis jerks his chin toward the door. 
"They've been calling these friends of 
mine 'bodyguards.' Do I look like I need 
a bodyguard? And why take it out on 
these boys? They're here to keep me com- 
pany. Sure, they run interference for me 
when I go in and out of stage doors. You 
know how the kids are sometimes — they'd 
tear my clothes off for souvenirs, and 
that's no joke. But bodyguards! I swear! 
Why would I want bodyguards against my 
own fans? I'm on the go so much, away 
from my family. Can't people understand 
I get lonesome? Having my friends here 
makes the rushing around easier to bear." 

The reporter is struck by a coincidence. 
"Did you know that Lionel Barrymore and 
Robert Taylor were listed on this floor? 
Also Stewart Granger, Yul Brynner, 
Glenn Ford. . ." 

Elvis snaps out of a brooding silence to 
ask, "Say, I wonder if Gable ever used 
this room?" 

"Gable never did," says the publicity 
man. "But Sinatra did when he made 
'High Society,' and Crosby used it when 
he did 'Man on Fire.' " 

"Gollee! Crosby and Sinatra," echoes 
Elvis, lost in the marvel of some private 
dream. "And now me? Don't pinch me 
or I'll wake up . . ." 

He has draped himself into a leather 
club chair. He seems relaxed and con- 
templative. It's hard to believe he has been 
on the treadmill since early morning. At 
eight, he reported to the recording studio 
for rehearsals; then a stiff workout at the 
gym; then back for two more hours of 
intense rehearsing. Now a fast lunch is to 
be downed in the course of an interview 
which, because of its subject matter, is 
bound to be emotionally disturbing. 

The reporter studies him curiously. How 
does he manage it? she wonders. Yet there 
he is, smiling, his white pigskin shoes, tan 
suede jacket and dark yellow slacks giv- 
ing him a surface air of casual jauntiness. 
He notices her staring at the disc-shaped 
ornament hanging around his neck, and he 
fingers it fondly. "It's Indian work," he ex- 
plains. "A very sweet kid gave it to me 
when I did a show up in Canada. This 
kid — when she hung it over my head, she 
told me it would bring me luck. Luck! 
What else have I had butl" 

With his sideburns gone — for the first 
half of the film, he wears a crew cut 
wig- — Elvis looks younger than at any 
period since he hit the big-time. Part of 
this is due to the fact that he has dropped 
from 183 to 172 pounds during the nine 
days of his most recent personal-appear- 
ance tour. Though he looks younger in the 
physical sense, there is a new quality of 
firmness and deliberation in his manner. 

"I don't eat or sleep too well on these 



trips," says Elvis. "I get too keyed up and, 
when I go back to my room, the whole 
performance keeps racing through my head 
over and over — especially if it was a bad 
one." 

No question has been asked but he 
evidently senses one. "Oh, sure, I always 
know when it hasn't been up to par. May- 
be the audience doesn't feel anything 
wrong, but I can feel right down in my 
bones when it hasn't been a real knocked- 
out-and-gone show. That's when I need 
the fellows around me most. Gene will 
start talking about the old days back home, 
and Carol or Cliff or someone will kick it 
around and we'll remember this or that. It 
always ends the same way. I get a terrible 
hunger to talk to my folks. Generally, I 
pick up the phone and call them." 

Suddenly, he chuckles softly. "The things 
you writers say! One fellow came to see 
me and he spotted a book on the table. 
Matter of fact, it wasn't my book — some- 
body forgot it. 'So you read,' he says. I 
began to do a burn. 'Of course I read,' I 
told him. Then he says, 'Do you like "the 
three B's"?' So I said, 'Are they any kin 
to "the three R's"?' So he wrote that 
'Elvis never heard of Bach, Beethoven or 
Brahms.' I told this story to another 
writer and she looked at me and said, 'I 
think I'll do a story on "Is Elvis Going 
Longhair?"' I guess if she saw me play- 
ing pool, which I find relaxing, she'd do a 
piece on 'Is Elvis going hoodlum?' " 

He grins at the reporter and asks slyly, 
"Didn't you write a column about which 
young man will replace Elvis?" 

"Which do you think will?" the reporter 
fires back. 

Elvis throws back his head and roars at 
the thrust. "Like the Colonel says . . . 
quote, There's plenty of room at the top, 
unquote." 

A knock comes at the door and two 
busboys enter with his lunch. The tray 
holds a rasher of bacon, a double order of 
mashed potatoes, a bowl of brown gravy, 
a plate of sliced tomatoes, two large glasses 
of tomato juice and an order of bread 
and butter. "Me for the simple food," re- 
marks Elvis. "I'd rather eat cornbread and 
buttermilk in private than the fanciest 
meal in a restaurant with everyone watch- 
ing me like I was a trained seal." He points 
his fork at the reporter. "I'm not knocking 
my fans. They put the food on this plate. 
But I like to eat in quiet." 

The reporter nods. "What do you think 
of Tommy Sands?" she asks. 

Elvis' eyes brighten. "You know Tom- 
my? That's a great boy. He's got it." 

The reporter has taken a clip of papers 
from her bag and Elvis, seeing this, shrugs. 
"You've been checking on how I'm doing?" 

"I picked these up on my way home. . . 
at the Colonel's office." The clippings cover 
the nine-day tour Elvis made prior to be- 
ginning "Jailhouse Rock" at M-G-M. In 
fourteen appearances, his troupe netted 
$308,000— after taxes. He drew a larger 
turnout in Philadelphia than President 
Eisenhower did in his last campaign. There, 
said the Inquirer's front-page story, he 
had to sing to himself because of the 
"frenzied applause." In St. Louis, he 
racked up $32,000 for one performance. He 
wiggled, wailed and thumped his guitar 
for more than 28,000 adoring fans at his 
two shows in Detroit, and one hundred 
forty extra policemen were assigned to 
Olympia auditorium — plus the twelve 
special police, ten patrolmen and staff of 
ushers who helped him in and out of the 
theater. Almost 1,000 cheering fans fought 
a small but determined battle, trying to 
get a glimpse of their idol in his dressing- 




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room — they simply wouldn't believe loud- 
speaker announcements that he had al- 
ready left for his hotel. 

Most of the clippings reported that huge 
crowds had begun to queue up at the box 
office before 9 A.M., for shows that were 
scheduled for 2 P.M. The evening crowds, 
while equally large and enthusiastic, were 
said to be sprinkled with older people 
who helped bring a measure of order to 
the proceedings. One account stated that 
"Presley, the troubadour with the long 
sideburns, gives off more electricity than 
the Edison Co.'s combined transmitters." 

Flipping through the sheaf of papers, the 
reporter makes note of the fact that Elvis 
is still garnering an estimated 30,000 fan 
letters a week and that he received over 
300,000 cards at Christmas, including a 
goodly number from abroad. It carried the 
secretarial staff well into May before they 
were through tabulating this avalanche. 
And, not so long ago, Glenwood Dodgson, 
a male beautician of Grand Rapids — acting 
on the principle that "whoever is adored 
will be mimicked" — came up with a 
"slicked-back haircut with tufted side- 
burns a la Presley." It was featured by 
Life magazine and the United Press. With- 
in a span of three months, more than 15,000 
eager customers, both girls and boys, had 
swarmed into his chain of shops, begging 
to be done over in their idol's image. 

The reporter reads this item aloud. Elvis, 
listening with knife and fork poised, lets 
out a hearty guffaw. "I'm flattered, you 
bet," he says. "But what bowls me over 
is that a lot of them were girls!" He 
points to his "butch" wig. "I sure hope 
they don't run out after this new picture 
and get themselves crew cuts. I like girls 
to be girly-looking . . . you know?" 

In his own work, Elvis shows a sharp 
distaste for copying. He has struggled 
mightily to hammer out a style and sound 
of his own, and the results are now a mat- 
ter of recording history. For nearly two 
years, his renditions have topped the best- 
selling lists compiled by disc jockeys, juke- 
box operators and TV and radio pollsters. 

The reporter sees a notation by Colonel 
Parker on one of the pages: "To show how 
foolish this stuff about Elvis slipping can 
be — his 'All Shook Up' is number one on 
the hit parade." There is another note on 
the inspirational numbers Elvis has cut: 
"They said the fans wouldn't accept 'Peace 
in the Valley,' 'I Believe,' and 'Take My 
Hand.' Too highbrow. Well, all these are 
selling fine. The kids love them as much as 
the older folks. Who can tell how many 
of these gospel tunes will be still selling 
in the next few years — but I'd bet it will 
be plenty. There's a steady market for 
these tunes . . ." 

Has Elvis thought of giving Calypso a 
fling? Elvis shakes his head thoughtfully. 
"I did try a couple — in private, that is. 
But it didn't feel right for me. I get a lift 
hearing Belafonte and the singers who do 
Calypso, and I hope they make millions. 
But it's not for me." 

The publicity man remarks that Elvis, 
in spite of his youth, has a reliable in- 
stinct for picking commercial tunes. "He 
picks his numbers, and not only that — he 
picked the titles for his three movies. He 
did it by figuring out which song would 
score the biggest hit. Then the studios used 
them for the titles. You know he guessed 
right on 'Love Me Tender' and 'Loving 
You,' and we're betting here that 'Jail- 
house Rock' will top both of them." 

His lunch now over, Elvis is back in the 
leather chair, arms locked behind his 
T head. The other lads have returned. Gene 
V lies down with a mystery book. The rest 
:-- play cards. Elvis observes them a min- 
ute, then grins broadly. "Hot bunch of 
highbrows, aren't we?" He eyes the re- 
78 



porter alertly as she jots a note, and she 
explains: "I'm setting a few words down on 
a theory I have — I think some of the people 
who think you're slipping are the sort who 
react against any change. Have you no- 
ticed, every time you've changed your 
pace, they've started the same refrain?" 

"Actually," says Elvis, "I didn't change 
pace, as far as the religious songs go. 
If that's highbrow, then I've been that 
way since I was five, because I've been 
singing them since I started going to 
church." 

Watching him bent over in meditation, 
silent, his chin in hand, the reporter is 
struck by an idea. Can it be that Elvis is 
just growing up, and that's what is both- 
ering some of his critics? After all, it's 
quite a while since he did the Steve Allen 
and Ed Sullivan shows that started him 
skyrocketing. Aloud she asks, "Are you 
taking acting lessons? You once told me 
that remembering lines wasn't as hard as 
interpreting them — is it easier now?" 

Elvis hesitates. "It's easier . . . but 
I've just begun to scratch the surface. I've 
got a 'fur piece to go' before I'll call my- 
self a good actor." 

Having interviewed many of the pro- 
fessionals Elvis has worked with, the re- 
porter quotes Debra Paget, Richard Egan, 
Wendell Corey, Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, 
Natalie Wood and Ernest Borgnine to the 
effect that he shows promise of becom- 
ing an actor of rare dramatic distinction. 

Elvis listens intently, his face expres- 
sionless. She reads a quotation from Corey. 
"The boy learns fast. Everything he does 
is touched with talent. I thought him vast- 
ly improved over his first job of acting. 
He seemed better prepared and it was a 
more suitable part. His timing was fine 
and he reacted more naturally to his fellow 
actors. He's learning how to have an im- 
pact on the whole scene." 

Corey's interest in Elvis was sparked 
by his own thirteen-year-old daughter, 
Robin. It came about the night they saw 
"Friendly Persuasion." Wendell remarked 
that his old friend, Gary Cooper, had 
turned in an award- winning job. To his 
astonishment, Robin looked blank and 
asked, "Which was he, Daddy?" The dum- 
founded Corey saw that, if the younger 
generation were forgetting Coop, they'd 
naturally lose track of him, too. So, when 
a chance came up to appear with Presley 
in "Loving You," Wendell grabbed it. He 
hasn't regretted it, either. "It taught me 
not to judge these kids beforehand. Elvis 
turned out to be a simple, polite, and 
friendly lad. Not at all flashy. Nothing 
phony. He's a gentleman and I've had him 
to my home several times." 

The reporter stops. Elvis' eyes are shin- 
ing. "He's my friend," he says. "What else 
would he say?" He gets up and paces 
about. "I'm glad and proud he likes me. 
I've made some good friends here. Wendell 
Corey, Nick Adams, Bob Mitchum . . . 
some others, too." His voice quickens. 
"But I'm on the road so much. And, when 
I'm in town, I'm busy rehearsing, studying, 
cutting records . . . it's hard to make 
friends at that rate." 

Is Elvis trying to do too much at one 
time? It's a touchy question, but Elvis 
has a ready answer. "I might be going 
into service soon," he says simply, "and I 
hear some of the boys who went in were 
just plain forgotten by the time they got 
out. They had to start from scratch again. 
I figure the more I do now, the harder it 
might be to forget me. Then there's that 
saying about making hay while the sun 
shines." He calls over to one of the boys, 
"Say, Carol, do you have that letter from 
the kid out in Kansas?" 

"Kansas City, Missouri," Carol corrects. 
He goes to a cabinet and fumbles around 
inside until he finds the right letter. He 



hands it to the reporter, who reads: "Dear- 
est Elvi-poo, That's my special nickname 
for you. . ." She glances up, amused, and 
Elvis says ruefully, "Okay, give me the 
business . . . but don't make the kid sound 
silly. She's only twelve." The reporter 
reads on, "I just got through playing 'All 
Shook Up' for the fifty-first time, and 
honest, I couldn't go to sleep till I wrote 
you thanks. Please make lots more 'cause 
it says in the papers they are going to 
make you a soldier. And my Daddy says 
we're going to lose you for a few years. 
I don't think Daddy likes me to like you, 
'cause I'm only twelve and the whole 
country is going nuts — but 1 won't, if he 
has anything to say. Which he does. So 
please, dearest Elvi-poo, please sing and 
make lots of movies so I won't miss you 
so much when you go away. . . ." 

Ihe phone has begun to ring, and Elvis 
beats Gene to it. "It's Colonel Parker," he 
says. And, while he talks, the reporter 
turns her attention to the publicity man. 
"A couple of magazines have claimed his 
fan clubs are falling off," she says. 

"Right in that clip of papers, you'll find 
some statistics," he answers, "and it proves 
his clubs are growing, if anything." Search- 
ing the papers, she finds reference to a 
recent poll taken by the Los Angeles 
Junior Press Club. It offered prizes for the 
best letters on Presley, pro and con. Sug- 
gested subjects were: Is he a lewd fellow 
who leads the youth into hysteria and 
sin? Or is he, as Senator Kefauver put 
it, "Just a nice young lad from Tennessee"? 
Eighty-seven percent said Elvis was tops. 

The winning letter was written by a 
Pauline Garret of Banning, California, 
and argues that: "The people who hate him 
most usually never met him or saw him 
perform. They base their opinions on 
hearsay. . . ." 

"But," asks the reporter, "what about 
these kids who read about you bringing 
Yvonne Lime or Natalie Wood to meet 
your parents . . . and who then sit down 
and have a good cry?" 

Elvis looks at her, obviously baffled. 
"Look, I'm a normal guy. At my age, it's 
only normal to want to date a girl once 
in a while. Other entertainers do it, and 
nobody gets crabby. Why pick on me? I've 
had lots of fellows down to meet my folks 
in Memphis. Why not a girl? Anyway, 
they're always chaperoned by their moth- 
ers. What's the big deal?" 

"Maybe that reaction of the kids is 
another proof that, far from having slipped, 
you're moving full steam ahead," suggests 
the reporter, rising to leave. "My neighbor 
has a boy — oh, about nine — and, the other 
night, some friends were over and one of 
them asked the boy what he'd like to be 
when he grew up. 'I'd like to be famous,' 
he said. 'You mean like Eisenhower or 
Einstein?' But the boy said, 'I mean like 
Elvis Presley.' His mother chimed in with 
a loud 'Amen!' The friend stared at her 
and asked, 'You honestly mean that?' And 
the mother said, 'If my boy grows up as 
decent and successful a young man as 
Elvis, I'll be happy.'" 

A sudden and strange emotion crosses 
Elvis' face. One hand on the doorknob, he 
stands deep in thought. "That's a big re- 
sponsibility, isn't it?" he finally says, as if 
to himself. "Ma'am," he raises his head, "a 
year ago, I'd probably have said some- 
thing like 'I'm all shook up.' It's different 
now. I can't think up anything smart to 
say. Tell that lady and her boy thanks for 
the compliment. Say I . . . say I hope he'll 
grow up a better man than me." 

At that moment, he looks quite mature. 
He smiles wistfully, passes a hand over 
the crew cut wig, and walks slowly down 
the stairs to meet the challenge of an- 
other day. . . . 



He's Walkin on Air 



(Continued from page 28) 
many minutes — "it seemed like an hour, 
but I guess it was about fifteen minutes . . . 
or maybe thirteen" — the standard shriek 
of the young in heart and the powerful 
of lung made it impossible for the per- 
formance to begin. "And ... ah, the first 
fifteen rows in the auditorium were filled 
with girls . . . they were just great. . . ." 

Two shows were scheduled consecu- 
tively, with an intermission between, so 
as to give the entire student body the 
experience of seeing the Nelson — Four 
Preps program. Between shows, the enter- 
tainers were "secluded" in the basement 
of the school, a fact instantly discerned 
by fans who found ways of opening the 
windows — fortuitously placed so that one 
could lie on the grass and peer down 
into the concrete fortress — to continue to 
halloa at their guests. 

At the end of the show, only the aid of 
several of the school's football heroes 
made it possible for the boys to get into 
their car and retreat. "I guess I'll never 
forget it," says Ricky, wagging his sincere 
head. "They were so great." 

His next appearances before live audi- 
ences will take place at about the time 
you are reading this. Ricky and the Four 
Preps are scheduled to entertain at the 
Indiana State Fair, and at the Iowa State 
Fair. "At the Indiana State Fair, we fol- 
low George Gobel," Ricky says, his in- 
credulity keeping stride with a carefully 
controlled delight. 

Incidentally, the guitar he will use will 
be his own, and thereby hangs a tale. 
Ricky's birthday is May 8. On or about 
March 1, he started a subtle campaign. 
At table, or in the midst of some such 
family gathering, he would drop some 
such remark as, "There's really a swell 
collection of guitars at the Music Center — 
and priced right, too." Or, "I happened 
to be passing that music store on Holly- 
wood Boulevard the other day and saw a 
real. neat guitar. I stopped in for a minute 
. . . the guitar has a good tone ... I might 
save some dough and invest . . . some 
time. . . ." 

The family appeared as impervious to 
these delicate arrows as a coat of mail 
would be to a mosquito bite. 

A few days before RN Day — May 8, that 
is — Ozzie said with a straight face, "We're 
in a quandary about what to get you for 
your birthday. Your mother has a package 
or two put away, and I've been thinking 
that it was high time you had a suit tail- 
ored, but what would you like as a major 
gift?" 

Ricky swallowed hard, shaking his head. 
Adults! "Well . . . I've been wanting a 
pair of white bucks . . . with red rubber 
soles and then — of course, if it's too ex- 
pensive, that's something else again — but 
there's a guitar at the Music Center. . . ." 

Struggling to maintain composure, Ozzie 
said casually, "I'm going to be pretty 
busy, so I was thinking that if you'd like 
to pick it up yourself . . ." 

Ricky looked as though he'd swallowed 
a 300-watt light bulb with the current on. 
But all he said was, "Okay. I don't mind." 

The first thing he did, in order to place 
the stamp of his own personality upon the 
instrument, was to remove the E and A 
bass strings — "because I have my own 
system of chording, and I don't need those 
extra strings. They just get in my way. 
Four strings are plenty." 

The fruits of fame are swift and sweet. 
Ricky and a pair of friends were idling 
down Sunset Boulevard one afternoon 
when another car pulled up beside them 
to wait for the signal to change. In a rou- 
tine manner, Ricky's companions glanced 



over to check the possible presence of 
blond beauty, and promptly uttered a 
tribal cry. 

Two of the men in the adjacent car were 
members of the Jordanaires, the instru- 
mental-singing group that backs Elvis 
Presley — and the third passenger was 
Presley himself. The two lads in Ricky's 
car knew the two Jordanaires, so intro- 
ductions were exchanged. The conversa- 
tion continued at two additional stop 
lights. Then — Los Angeles traffic being 
what it is — four trucks, a bus, and four- 
teen bantam cars ended the conference. 

However, two days later, Ricky "hap- 
pened" to be driving past the Knicker- 
bocker Hotel — half a block north of Holly- 
wood Boulevard, and not too far out of 
the way of anyone en route to General 
Service Studios, where The New Adven- 
tures Of Ozzie And Harriet is filmed — and 
spotted the gyrating guitarist walking 
along the street. "There he was, just sort 
of looking over the cars parked around 
the hotel. He's interested in cars, you 
know," Ricky told his family later. "I 
stopped to talk to him. He's just great." 

As nearly as the scene could be recon- 
structed, it would have made a good inci- 
dent in an Ozzie and Harriet adventure. 
Apparently, Elvis had long been a fan of 
the Nelsons; he vouchsafed the informa- 
tion that he had watched the TV show 
weekly during his high-school days. In 
Presley's opinion, it would seem, Ricky 
Nelson was a revered veteran of show 
business, and a man well acquainted with 
the mysterious world of the sound stage. 
He plied Ricky with questions about the 
technical problems of movie-making. Why 
was this done? How much different was 
a filmed TV series from a wide-screen 
film? 

As for Ricky, he was fairly breathless 
over talking to the foremost song stylist 
of this era. He kept thinking of things 
he would like to ask, but the words stuck 
to the roof of his mouth like a peanut 
butter sandwich. Afterward, Ricky told a 
friend, "I got to see Elvis' gold jacket. 
No, he didn't exactly show it to me. See, 
these friends of mine and I were up in 
the Jordanaires' rooms and the cleaning 
had just come back from valet service . . . 
well, El vis's gold jacket was there on a 
hanger, so I got to see it." 

Of such experiences are glistening 
memories made. 

W hen Ricky is asked precisely why he 
is a Presley fan, he says simply, "Because 
he is exciting to watch. Because he is 
different." In explanation — and in mag- 
nanimous dismissal of the adult outcry 
against the Presley manner of delivering 
the beat that heats — Ricky says good- 
naturedly, "Anything new is likely to get 
a certain amount of adult disapproval. 
But then — " shrug " — teenagers actually 
don't like the same things adults do. 
Adults have a different viewpoint. . . ." 

Celebrities in general are no novelty to 
Ricky. For all of his seventeen years, he 
has been exposed to the crowned heads 
and the eggheads of show business. Yet 
the great names tossed off by one's parents 
have no more meaning to a youngster 
growing up than the names of his uncles 
or aunts. Adults are people to whom one 
is courteous, whether they are in the 
hardware business or taking bows at the 
Palace. It is the prominent personalities 
of one's own generation who are re- 
splendent. .> 

By the same token, the fame of one's 
family is easy to take in stride, but a real 
charge awaits an ambitious youngster who 
is able to achieve prominence under his 
own power. In many ways, Ricky is the 







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79 



typical younger child. Any bridge-table 
psychiatrist will tell you that the dreams 
of a youngest child often place him in a 
race, and the daydreams of that child give 
him victory. 

One of Ricky's first enthusiasms was 
racing on ice skates. Harriet had long 
enjoyed skating for exercise and relaxa- 
tion, but both boys quickly became adept 
on the frozen footrails, and usually won 
any event in which they were entered. 

The next exertion to claim Ricky — body, 
soul, and racquet — was tennis. . Don Budge 
had often been a dinner guest at the Nel- 
son table, and Ricky had seldom missed 
a match in which Pancho Gonzales played, 
so it was inevitable that he should begin 
to ask himself how it might feel, one day, 
to be invited to play on a Davis Cup team. 
That did it. For several years, Ricky's 
every spare moment was spent on the 
tennis court and the sight of a backhand 
superior to his own produced an advanced 
state of melancholy. There was no need 
for gloom, because Ricky managed to at- 
tain a No. 5 California rating for players 
under sixteen years of age. 

Tennis expired as the love of Ricky's life 
as soon as he reached legal driving age. 
("I have to concentrate on one thing at 
a time. You might say that problem is 
one of my troubles.") Joyously, he en- 
tered the era of the greasy thumb. He is 
now driving a blue Plymouth stock car 
that has been tampered with only to the 
extent that the deck has been shaved 
(i.e., all chromium has been removed, the 
holes left by removal of the emblem have 
been filled in, the deck has been sand- 
blasted, primed, and repainted), and dual 
pipes and cutouts have been added. Two 
months ago, he won a drag race supervised 
and held on one of the accredited drag 
strips near Los Angeles. 

He had begun to think seriously of 
operating on the car's motor to get faster 
performance, when his mental hobby-cart 
shifted gears. In place of a steering wheel 
in his hands, his free hours were spent 
with a guitar under his arm. 

Is there time left for romance? "Oh, 
I've already gone steady about five times, 
but there isn't anybody special right now. 
I guess I'm too — ah — busy and all." 

His favorite type of girl? "Mmm . . . 
Marilyn Monroe . . . that type isn't bad 
at all. . . . Jayne Mansfield? Mmmm — you 
might say that I like a girl who's pretty 
all over." 

What is the dating deal? "When I was 
a kid, I used to have a specific allowance, 
paid every week, but that stopped by the 
time I was twelve years old. Nowadays, 
when I have a date, I speak to my father. 
Five bucks will take two people to a 
movie, and then to a drive-in for a ham- 
burger and a glass of milk. I'm not as 
crazy about pizza as some of the kids are. 
I like to dance, but there isn't a place for 
teenagers to dance around town; we have 
to go to somebody's house. Sometimes we 
just listen to recordings. Maybe my favor- 
ite recording to date is Fats Domino's 'I'm 
in the Mood for Love.' " 

His movie favorites? "Marlon Brando 
and James Dean. Especially Jimmy ... if 
he could have gone on — he had a lot to 
say, if you know what I mean, and teen- 
agers understood him . . ." 

His career theories at this time? "I don't 
like to analyze entertainment styles. If a 
style is really good, it can't be analyzed, 
because it is unique. There hasn't been 
anything like it before, so how can you 
say 'it's made up of this and this and this'? 
Put all the ingredients together and you 
still won't get the style, because the style 
T is the human being. 

v "I don't think a person should imitate. 
R ... I've received some letters from teen- 
agers who caution me: 'Don't imitate 
Elvis,' they say. Well, I don't and I won't. 
oO 



A performer should do what is natural, 
what he feels. He should express himself 
to the best of his ability. Then, if he 
pleases . . . well, he's in. 

"I guess I'm most happy about my rec- 
ords, because they show that I can do 
something on my own. That's what the 
average kid wants to do — something on 
his own. . . ." 

Ricky is slightly over six feet tall; his 
eyes are a limpid blue and his hair is 
heavy, unruly, and brown. A casting 
director would note on his file card that 
he has great natural charm. He also has — 
and this has not yet occurred to him — the 
perfect actor's face. It is a transparent 
film over his emotions; at this particular 
period in his life, he has not yet learned 



to curtain that transparency. 

Uncertainty, amusement, mischief, po- 
lite disbelief, equally polite boredom, en- 
thusiasm, embarrassment, controlled dis- 
agreement, equally controlled concurrence 
— all can be expressed by an eyebrow, a 
shifting shoulder, a slight turn of a hand, 
or a swift change of facial expression. 

Within the immediate present, Eric Hil- 
liard Nelson is almost certain to succeed as 
a recording artist. But, unless all signs 
fail, his future belongs to Hollywood and 
films, because this lad has it: The magical, 
indefinable touch of natural talent. The 
guitar is a wonderful new treasure. 
Ricky's real gift is one that Ozzie and 
Harriet Nelson gave him some seventeen 
years ago. 



1/ote 



FOR YOUR FAVORITES 



Each year TV Radio Mirror polls its readers for their favorite programs 
and performers. This year, for the first time, the polling was begun in 
the July issue and continues until the end of the year. Results will be 
tabulated after December 31, and award winners will be announced in 
the May 1958 issue. So vote today. Help your favorites to win a Gold Medal. 



TV STARS and PROGRAMS 

Male Singer 

Female Singer 

Comedian 

Comedienne 

Dramatic Actor 

Dramatic Actress 

Daytime Emcee 

Evening Emcee 

Musical Emcee 

Quizmaster 

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Best New Star 

Daytime Drama 

Evening Drama 

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Evening Variety 

Comedy Program 

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Quiz Program 

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Mystery or Adventure 

Western Program 

TV Panel Show 

Best Program on Air 

Best New Program 

TV Husband-and-Wife Team... 



RADIO STARS and PROGRAMS 

Male-Singer 

Female Singer 

Comedian 

Comedienne 

Dramatic Actor 

Dramatic Actress . . . 

Daytime Emcee 

Evening Emcee 

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Send your votes to TV Radio Mirror Awards, P.O. Box 
No. 1767, Grand Central Station, New York 17, N. Y. 



9-5 



Young Man in a Hurry 



(Continued from page 20) 
only passed up the opportunity to tour 
with the road company of "The Lark," 
with Julie Harris, but risked being fired 
as Tallulah Bankhead's leading man on 
stage — which is, as Jay puts it, "a chance 
of a lifetime for an actor." 

Jay is a slim, on-the-darkish-side six- 
footer with strong features and blue-gray 
eyes. He's been acting on both coasts — TV, 
movies, stage — since leaving the Army, 
after a six-year hitch. Acting in radio is 
his newest venture in the field, and he 
feels it's one of the most challenging: 
"You've got to portray every shade of a 
characterization with only one instrument 
— your voice. I'm especially fascinated with 
the role of Kurt Bonine because there are 
so many facets to his personality." 

.Being very energetic, with a tremendous 
capacity for hard work, Jay continues 
acting in other mediums along with his 
radio show. On television, he participated 
in a couple of important TV debuts this 
season. In James Cagney's show, "Soldier 
From the War Returning," Jay was Cag- 
ney's commanding officer. And, in Ethel 
Merman's "Honest in the Rain," Jay 
enacted the happily married man who 
was trying to get his brother married to 
Miss Merman. Performing in the Phil 
Silvers Show several times, Jay was re- 
cently seen as a lieutenant colonel — a rank 
he actually holds in the Army Reserves. 

Ingenious Jay has not only managed to 
do night-time TV, he even took on a 
Broadway play — Tallulah Bankhead's "Eu- 
genia" — with a six-week tryout in New- 
Haven, Boston, Philadelphia and Balti- 
more. Every day, he commuted from the 
CBS Manhattan studio to whatever town 
the play was running. 

One of the reasons that Jay covers so 
much ground, literally as well as figura- 
tively, is that he goes everywhere via motor 
scooters and motorbikes. He owns two 
scooters and five motorbikes — "so that I 
can switch parts without waiting to have 
them repaired and keep rolling." And 
keep rolling on them he does! Jay on his 
scooter, with cap, driving glasses, mitts 
and bike clips, is such a familiar figure 
in Manhattan's snarled traffic lanes, pull- 
ing in or out at the radio and TV stations, 
at the theaters and at the airports, that 
most New York columnists have told the 
"Jay scooter" story, at one time or an- 
other. 

He took to scooters several seasons back, 
while making movies in Hollywood: "It 
took so long to get to one studio from 
another, walking or taking a bus. Taxis 
are expensive, and it seems they're never 
around when you need them in a hurry. 
With your own car, you spend half the 
time trying to find a parking space. There's 
always room for a scooter." 

Jay has found that he saves at least two 
hours a day going the scooter way and 
that the two-wheel vehicles are depend- 
able. He's had only one close call of al- 
most arriving late for a performance be- 
cause of scooter trouble. As he described 
it, "After a TV show, I had twelve min- 
utes to scoot to the Circle in the Square 
(an off-Broadway theater) for a perform- 
ance of "The Grass Harp.' It was the night 
of Hurricane Carol. A passing truck 
drenched my motorbike, causing a short 
in the ignition. There I was, stranded, still 
in my TV costume of a prison uniform! 
The first cab I hailed took one look and 
sped off like a jackrabbit. A policeman 
gave me the eye, but made no move to 
pick me up. I finally 'commandeered' an- 
other cab — and made the entrance with 
but ten seconds to spare." 



Jay sticks with his mode of transporta- 
tion regardless of winter snow and sleet. 
When "Eugenia" opened its out-of-town 
pre-Broadway run, it was the latter part 
of December. "After the morning Helen 
Trent broadcast, I'd scoot to the airport — 
I get there in twenty minutes, half the 
time it takes by bus. I'd have another 
scooter waiting for me at the airport at 
the other end, getting me to the theater 
in time for rehearsal. After the perform- 
ance, I'd return to New York." 

The commuting arrangement, which 
had been agreed upon in Jay's "Eugenia" 
contract, worked out smoothly until one 
day Jay arrived for rehearsal one hour 
late. But Jay's scooter wasn't the cause. 
His scheduled flight to Boston was can- 
celed because it was New Year's Day, and 
he had no alternative but to wait for a 
later flight. When he arrived at the 
theater, Tallulah became aware for the 
first time that Jay left for New York each 
night. 

"I thought she knew it all along," Jay 
says, "because she saw me leave the 
theater every night in my scooter rigs. 
At first, I thought she looked at me in 
rather an absent-minded manner when 
I'd say goodnight. I found out the reason 
several nights later, when she happened 
to see me as I was about to put on my 
riding cap and glasses. Out came the 
famous Tallulah Bankhead laugh. She 
said, 'My God — it's been youl I couldn't 
imagine who the tall man with the glasses 
was who so politely bid me good night. It's 
you behind those glasses.' Then she ran 
out to see me take off, and the cast told 
me later she laughed till her ribs hurt." 

But apparently Tallulah had thought 
Jay was just scooting around Boston, for 
she was aghast upon learning that he was 
risking 500 miles of traveling daily in mid- 
winter weather conditions. "She told me 
nicely, but firmly, that I either drop the 
Trent show or she would be forced to give 
me two weeks' notice. Later, after the per- 
formance at a New Year's Eve party for 
the cast, she took me aside to persuade 
me to decide in favor of her show. 

"I was in a dilemma," Jay admits. "I 
left the party and took a long walk to 
think things out. I didn't want to drop 
the Trent show. The writer had graciously 
written me out on theater matinee days, 
and I had promised I would continue with 
the role. At the same time, I knew getting 
fired from the Tallulah cast would have 
repercussions. It would be difficult to 
make any one believe that I wasn't fired 
for any other reason than incompetence. 
Finally, I decided that, regardless of the 
outcome, there as only one thing to do. 

"The next day, when Tallulah asked me 
if I had decided, I told her I would have 
to continue with the Trent show because 
I had given my word. To my surprise — 
and relief — she looked at me quietly and 
said, 'I understand perfectly, and you're 
quite right. I respect you for your stand, 
and we'll get along the best we can. But 
you will do one thing for me, won't you? 
Ask them for me to please write you out 
as often as they can until we open on 
Broadway.' Unknown to me, I had hit a 
spot that I've since learned is very im- 
portant to her — loyalty. She herself has 
never gone back on a promise or her 
word to a producer." 

The play didn't run long on Broadway, 
but Jay garnered good notices and feels 
the experience of playing with the great 
Bankhead was an invaluable one. "What 
a lesson in acting she can give everyone," 
he says. "She feels a tremendous responsi- 
bility to the audience and wants everyone 




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to give their best. When she's offstage, she 
always listens to the others on stage and, 
when they come off, she has helpful com- 
ments to make." 

Jay found that, off stage, Tallulah is as 
magnetic as on stage — witty, full of fun 
and amusing. The first night the cast ar- 
rived in Boston, a line rehearsal was held 
in her hotel suite and Tallulah called 
room-service for refreshments. The serv- 
ice man at the other end was apparently 
trying to find out where to deliver the 
order. 'Room number?' exclaimed Tallu- 
lah in the phone. 'I have no idea. Just go 
up and down the hallways, you'll hear me 
laughing.' " 

Jay feels that until an actor is a star, 
he should, within reason, take every role 
that comes his way. "For me, it seems that 
roles come in numbers, or else it'll be 
very quiet. I feel I've got to make the 
most of those fertile periods." 

sometimes that means going at a pace 
which borders on the "too much" side, 
even for inexhaustible Jay, and once he 
almost faltered in his belief. 

He experienced the most hectic week of 
his career two seasons ago, when he was 
playing the running role of the district 
attorney on the TV daytime-drama series, 
First Love, and was cast in the Broadway 
play, "The Young and Beautiful," as 
actress Lois Smith's father. Every day, he 
performed in an off-Broadway play, per- 
formed on TV and rehearsed in another 
TV and another off-Broadway play. In the 
morning, he rehearsed a Robert Mont- 
gomery show. That afternoon, he re- 
hearsed and performed in TV's First Love, 
then went on to the "Young and Beauti- 
ful" rehearsal. He started off the evening 
with a performance in Kafka's "The Trial," 
at the Provincetown Playhouse, and ended 
it with rehearsal of another off-Broadway 
venture, "Spring's Awakening." 

"Nothing has compared to that week," 
he sighs thankfully. "I thought I had an- 
other week of too many doings recently, 
when — in addition to the Trent show — I 
was on the NBC True Confession series, 
did a Voice of America broadcast of the 
play 'Our Town,' performed in scenes 
for an American Theater Wing demonstra- 
tion, and gave a lecture before a speech 
association. Oh, yes — I finished my role in 
a movie for the medical profession that 
week, too. Well, as I said, I thought that 
was a lot. But at least it was spread out 
through the week, not every day." 

Jay has found that, even when he has 
wondered about the wisdom of some of 
his undertakings, quite often he has been 
pleasantly surprised at the results. One 
example is the Broadway play of several 
seasons ago, "The Immoralist," in which 
Jay half-heartedly agreed to be the un- 
derstudy to the star, Louis Jourdan. By 
the last few days of the show's run, Jay 
was sure he had taken on a thankless job. 
But it turned out that Jourdan couldn't 
play the last two performances and Jay 
stepped into the role. "Critics didn't get 
to see me," he remembers, "but the word 
got around that I did a good job, and 
rumors of that kind help." 

A critic once said of Jay, "He hasn't a 
bad performance in him." In reply to this, 
Jay says, "I think critics and audiences 
are better judges of that than I can be. 
But I do believe firmly in trying to do 
my best, whether it's in the classroom, a 
hardly noticeable part or something big. 
That's the only way you can develop in 
becoming a good actor— by working hard 
at every role you take. And, frequently, 
that role will lead to another." 

Jay's role in The Romance Of Helen 
Trent stems from the work he did in a 
radio acting class, in which one of the 
directors was Ernie Ricca, director of 



Helen Trent. Jay, who hasn't stopped 
studying acting in some group or other 
since his summer-theater apprentice days, 
enrolled in the class with his last fifty- 
four dollars on the G.I. bill. 

"I had done very little radio work," he 
points out, "and felt inadequate in the 
medium. But I worked hard in the class 
and apparently Ernie liked my work — for, 
when the Kurt Bonine role came up, he 
recommended me as one of the possibili- 
ties. Of course, I didn't get the part with- 
out competing in numerous readings with 
many others. But the point is that I prob- 
ably wouldn't have had a chance in the 
running, if Ernie hadn't been familiar 
with my work." It was the same thing 
with "Eugenia." Herb Machiz, the director, 
had worked with Jay in an off-Broadway 
production of "Death of Odysseus." The 
production ran only several nights, but 
Machiz remembered Jay's work as Odys- 
seus, to the extent that he suggested the 
actor for the Bankhead play. "For 'Eu- 
genia,' " Jay recalls, "I went through a 
grueling screening before I got the part. 
But, again, I probably wouldn't have had 
a chance to get anywhere near a tryout 
if someone with the show hadn't known 
my work." 

In another "good break," Jay got the 
role without trying for it — the part of 
Dr. Kramer in the movie, "The Shrike," 
starring Jose Ferrer and June Allyson. 
Jay, who had played in Ferrer's produc- 
tion of "Richard III" at City Center, ran 
into Ferrer on a Hollywood street — Jay on 
his scooter, of course, Ferrer in a car. 

"Just finished doing 'Battle Taxi,' " Jay 
replied to Ferrer's question. "Hear you're 
here for 'The Shrike.' Keep me in mind, 
eh?" Ferrer did. A couple of weeks later, 
Jay — who was back in New York — re- 
ceived a wire from his Hollywood agent 
saying, "Take plane right away. Ferrer 
wants you for 'Shrike.' " 

Although Jay feels very strongly about 
the importance of working hard at acting, 
he doesn't think that factor alone is suf- 
ficient until an actor has become a star. 
He feels it is equally important for an 
actor to be promoted properly: "I know 
a lot of good actors, really very talented, 
who don't get all the roles they should. 
On the other hand, sometimes a not very 
talented actor gets to the top because of 
a skillful promotion-publicity job." 

Jay does his own promoting and han- 
dles it as competently as a professional 
publicist. To producers, directors and 
newspapers, he sends printed cards, re- 
view pages, news releases and quips. "I 
don't overdo it," he smiles, "but I think 
this part of my working hard at being an 
actor is very important. When I did the 
publicity for our R.O.T.C. military ball at 
the University of Chicago, I learned you've 
got to tell people about a coming event 
if you want them to attend. In acting, 
this is doubly true. Producers and di- 
rectors are very busy people. It's not 
enough to do a good job — you've got to 
let them know you're doing it." 

Jay learned to be realistic, resourceful 
and a hard worker in his childhood. "We 
were poor by choice. My father worked in 
his father's furniture business in Elgin, 
Illinois, until I was four. Then Dad de- 
cided he didn't want to stay in the busi- 
ness — he wanted to travel around the 
country. My mother agreed that it sounded 
like a good idea. So we got into Dad's 
model-T Ford and traveled until I was 
twelve. 

"When we'd find a place we liked," Jay 
remembers, "we'd stay put for a while, 
Dad taking on a milk or laundry route. 
For a long time, we followed state fairs 
and carnivals, where Dad would run a 
popcorn stand and I sold balloons. Other 



times, we followed the crops and worked 
in the fields. By the time we returned to 
home grounds, settling in Maywopd, Illi- 
nois, where Dad opened a candy store, 
I had been in every state with the excep- 
tion of Maine and South Dakota. And I 
had attended eighteen different schools." 

While on the road, Jay began helping 
his father at the various odd jobs at the 
age of six. In Maywood, he continued to 
be his Dad's helper in the candy store 
(which later grew into a number of 
stores) through the rest of his grade- 
school years and through high school and 
college. In addition, Jay ran a parking lot 
during high school and was busy in extra- 
curricular activities — debating teams, year- 
book, school paper, and dramatics: "I 
tried out for the junior class play because 
I was interested in the girl who was play- 
ing the lead. I got a character part. She 
fell for the leading man. I didn't get her 
— but I got the acting bug." 

Upon high-school graduation, Jay won 
a scholarship to the University of Chi- 
cago, where he got his B.S. degree in 
political science in three years' time. Dur- 
ing this period, he was captain of the 
debate team and drum-major of the band, 
won the mile run and a medal for being 
"the outstanding R.O.T.C. cadet of the 
year" — and played the clarinet — but was 
finding out more and more that what he 
was enjoying most was acting in plays. 
Thus, the summer before college gradua- 
tion, he joined the apprentice group of 
the Berkshire Playhouse in Stockbridge, 
Massachusetts, returned to it the summer 
after graduation and then stayed in the 
East to study acting. 

He was studying with well-known 



theater director Bobby Lewis when World 
War II broke. Holding a second lieu- 
tenant's rank with the O.R.C., Jay was 
transferred to the Signal Corps and was 
assigned to the photographic center in 
Long Island City. Jay is proud of the fact 
that, during the six years he spent at the 
Army center, he produced or directed one 
hundred and eleven training films, one of 
which has won an international award. 
He started out as an assistant director and 
rose to executive producer, with the rank 
of lieutenant colonel. 

Jay has maintained his interest in film 
making since leaving active service. Now 
with the Reserves, he teaches a film pro- 
jectionist course for servicemen each week 
at the U.S.A.R. School in Manhattan. He 
also has his own company, Jaybar Films, 
Inc., and produced a documentary for the 
New York State Civil Defense Commission 
which is also in official use in other 
states. 

For recreation, Jay likes best to read — 
he averages three books a week, mostly 
biographies — and to go to the theater and 
movies, with an actress for his date com- 
panion. "I prefer actresses because — let's 
face it — I'm absorbed in this acting busi- 
ness and I like to share the plays and 
movies with someone who can discuss 
them from a professional viewpoint. Be- 
sides, actresses are very fascinating wo- 
men," say Jay. 

With all this, Jay insists he has no 
"hobbies" — adding, logically enough, "I 
don't have time for any." But what would 
the average man, not so much in a hurry, 
call two scooters, five motorbikes, a half- 
dozen simultaneous careers — and dates 
with fascinating women? 



Interview Subject: Mike Wallace 



(Continued from page 27) 
shot a criminal — and even believed that 
shooting a criminal sometimes saved the 
trouble of going into a trial. A foreign 
actress, commenting on the peculiar atti- 
tude of American men toward European 
women, told of a Hollywood producer mak- 
ing passes at her. An ex-heavyweight 
champion said he got satisfaction in hitting 
someone and drawing blo6d. A well-known 
radio personality noted that she had once 
considered alleviating her loneliness by 
having a baby out of wedlock. 

When Mike Wallace was interviewing, 
the unexpected was usually expected. Alone 
with Mike, a guest opened up and talked 
from the heart. But when ex-gangster 
Mickey Cohen got on the show, the unex- 
pected was truly unexpected. Mickey 
Cohen blasted several Los Angeles officials 
by name — and the officials immediately 
threatened suits against ABC and every- 
one else concerned. Some newspaper 
columnists hopped on Mike for permitting 
this to happen — but, at the same time, 
expressed the sincere hope that his "fear- 
less" interviews would be allowed to con- 
tinue. Most reviewers continued to de- 
scribe the show as "adult and intelligent." 
Mike had already received the recognition 
of the radio-TV industry by getting New 
York Emmy Awards for the "Most Out- 
standing Live Local Program" and "Most 
Outstanding Male Personality." 

But, when Mike Wallace asks questions, 
it's a case of major surgery — and the 
patient has no anesthetic. Mike probes 
deep. He asked pointblank of Sloan Simp- 
son, ex-wife of William O'Dwyer, "Why 
did you walk out on your marriage?" Of 
society columnist Igor Cassini, "How many 
times have you been punched in the 
nose?" Of a movie starlet, "Does a girl 
have to barter her morals to get ahead in 



Hollywood?" Of Abe Burrows, "Why did 
you go into psychoanalysis?" Of Elsa Max- 
well, "You don't believe in fidelity in mar- 
riage?" Of Mr. John, famed millinery de- 
signer, "Is there a preponderance of 
effeminate men in the fashion industry?" 
Of union leader Mike Quill, "Are you a 
religious man?" 

Mike Quill seemingly blew his top over 
that last question, and called Mike Wal- 
lace a "first-class Peeping Tom." But Mike 
Quill was the exception. Elsa Maxwell 
said that she didn't resent the questions 
and, actually, enjoyed herself, Mary 
Margaret McBride found Mike charming. 
Abe Burrows took it with a grin and 
chuckled. Jack Gould, of The New York 
Times, said of Mike: "He has an adult 
curiosity that is an essential to reporting; 
most of all, he is not a wise guy." Bennett 
Cerf, another guest on the show, reported 
in The Saturday Review of Literature: 
"Mike needles guests into revealing what 
really makes them tick — and who are their 
pet hates. This show belongs on a coast- 
to-coast hook-up." 

Mike himself originally had his doubts 
about doing the show nationally. "I thought 
the show has been 'oversold,' " he recalls. 
"Maybe one out of five interviews was 
really exciting. Locally, we did eight half- 
hour interviews a week. If we fumbled, we 
had a chance to get the ball back. On net- 
work, we could do only one interview a 
week. And then there was the question of 
freedom of subjects and questions. In New 
York, we presumed that we were talk- 
ing for a late-night, adult audience." ABC 
reassured Mike, who says, "I was told 
that I could ask any question within the 
bounds of good taste. My contract is for 
fifty-two weeks in prime time. That means 
the show must go on for a full year, one 
night of each week, between seven-thirty 



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guarantee of $100,000 for the year. 

The kind of man who gets people talking 
more frankly than they would to their 
own diaries is medium-tall, dark and 
deadpan. Mike has black eyes, black 
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